Prelude
by bensara91513
Summary: Have you ever wondered about the connection between Madame Giry and the Phantom? Why did he choose her to be his box keeper? Why did she seem so willing to do his bidding? Meet Annie, a brave but lonely young girl doing her best to survive in an unbearable situation. But one night she sneaks out and stumbles upon an angel-and their lives would never be the same.
1. Chapter 1

CH 1

She pulled the cloak more tightly about her shoulders as she stepped out of the cottage, pushing the door shut quietly behind her. Treading lightly on the dirt path, she lifted her head to the sky and inhaled the crisp harvest night that embraced her. From a distance, she could hear muffled crashes of tambourines and the occasional peal of shrill laughter. She glanced over her shoulder quickly, to make certain there were no watching eyes, and then, set upon her way.

Dim sounds of merriment grew louder and more distinct as her nimble feet carried her swiftly away from her home—the succulent aroma of roasting meat beckoning her forth. Before long, she arrived at a small, U-shaped encampment of horse-drawn wagons and octagonal tents that housed all manner of entertainers—from dancers to jugglers to exotically garbed men who were said to consume fire.

With autumn encroaching on the land, the gypsy fair would soon be moving out for the season. Though she knew she could possibly catch hell for sneaking off, Annie was determined to drink in the rare sights and frivolity all around her. She gazed curiously at the stands where the merchants were hawking their beads and silks, imagining that one day, she would buy a fine scarf to wrap around her waist, or a beaded bracelet for her wrist. She laughed at the lanky figure walking on stilts, who bent low to offer her a flower. Knowing she did not have enough coins to spare for the bloom, she shook her head politely, but he placed the bud behind her ear anyway, before rising again to his towering height and continuing on his way.

Meandering through the crowd, Annie gazed at the signs nailed up to posts outside the tents. _Bearded Lady, Sword Swallower, The Mystical Fortune Teller_ —each one required admission. Stuffing her fist into her pocket, and feeling the paltry few coins she had stored inside, she knew she could only afford to see one exhibit. She had to choose wisely.

The largest tent, at the very back of the formation, boasted the most plentiful crowd, with a line of spectators snaking down the pathway to pay their fee for admittance. _The Living Corpse_ , was written on the large placard placed at the foot of the pavilion. _Your ears will never know such beauty. Your eyes shall never know such horror!_ _Come one, come all to witness the Devil's Child._

Intrigued, Annie took her place in the line, gathering the small bits of silver in her hand. When she came to the flapped opening of the tent, she felt a large, fleshy hand grip her on her shoulder.

"Just one minute, little girl," came the gruff, scratchy voice of the money taker at the entrance.

"I am _not_ a little girl!" she countered, aghast at being called such. "I am twelve years old, and I will thank you to remember it too!"

Short and stout, with torn brown breeches and a stained shirt, he raised an eyebrow at her. "Who do you belong to?"

"No one but myself, Monsieur," she responded, icily.

"What you are about to see…" he admonished her condescendingly, folding his arms across his barrel chest. "It is not for young eyes. I don't want any trouble with your people expecting their money back if their little miss cannot handle it."

Annie jutted her chin out proudly and stared him square in the eyes. "My _people_ are not here. My _silver_ however is, and it is as good as any other. I assure you, Monsieur, that I have witnessed things that would make men twice my age, _and_ size, quiver in their boots. Now," she added, holding out her fist. "Here is my fee. Step aside and allow me to enter."

The attendant narrowed his eyes, regarding her closely for another quiet moment. Her gaze never faltered from his, her chin never lowering from its haughty upraised position. She was a child, but a formidable one, so with a grumble and a sneer, he flattened his palm to receive the coins that she offered, and grudgingly granted her entry.

The inside of the tent was dark and hot, a stench that conjured hell itself permeating the air. It was filled just about to bursting with fairgoers who stood shoulder to shoulder to see a glimpse of this supposed devil child. Being smaller than most of the throng, Annie wove in and out of the press, twisting and turning to make her way to the front.

Before her, there stood a cold, steel cage—empty except for a solitary figure in the back corner, facing away from the onlookers. He wore filthy breeches that were far too short, and his bare back revealed a crisscross of white and red scars where the whip had obviously stung his flesh. Though he was tall, his form was slight, almost skeletal, his bony shoulders jutting up toward the sky. Hints of black hair, stringy and matted, brushed the base of his neck, as his head hung low before him. Everything about his demeanor screamed broken, lost, defeated—and to Annie, those screams were deafening.

A hush came over the crowd when a large man carrying a thin black cane in one hand, and a long black whip in the other, walked out onto the floor in front of the cage. He was dressed all in a black from his top hat to his thigh high boots, with only a red tailcoat to add a touch of flamboyance to his otherwise dour appearance. "Welcome, Ladies and Gentlemen," he began, in a loud disturbing voice, that made the hairs on Annie's neck stand on end, "to the den of despair—the very lair of the Living Corpse…"

Annie watched the figure in the shadows flinch a bit at the mention of the moniker, and if possible, his head hung even lower to his chest, his back hunching over as he had heard the gypsy master's words.

"'…How', you ask, 'can a corpse still breathe?' I shall tell you, my friends, for The Reaper comes to all of us—young and old, rich and poor—and it rends us from this life with no discrimination. But here, ladies and gentlemen, you will behold death as it was thrust upon this world—a festering wound, a putrefying blister on the visage of all that is holy. For it is no creature born of angels that you shall see before you—but the vile, the horrific, devil's child."

A chorus of gasps issued forth from the milling crowd, who was hanging onto the gypsy master's every word. Annie, however, continued to regard the figure in the shadows even as she vaguely heard the theatrical speech. He had begun to tremble now, his back tensing with every reference to death and decay. The emaciated form heaved up and down in an ever-quickening rhythm, as if he was breathing harder and faster. And the master droned on.

"…And yet, the devil is cunning, is he not?" the appalling man continued, spinning his yarn of horror and disgust. "Creating seduction from perversion, allure out of aberration. And it is no different with the fruit of his own decrepit loins, for the demon masquerades as an angel, in order to draw us forth."

At that moment, the master gave a hard crack of his cane, and waved his hand toward the figure—who still did not turn to face the heaving throng of onlookers. Annie saw him stand up taller, bracing himself, it seemed, as if for a blow. Almost imperceptibly, a single golden note began to swell from the shadows. Pure and unearthly, it hovered in the air, floating like a wisp on the wind. It pierced the soul with its clarity, and brought to mind the weeping of angels with its heartbreakingly exquisite tone.

For a moment, the horde in the tent stood silent and still, transfixed by the glorious sound filling their ears. Men put their arms around their womenfolk, as they began to shed hot, enraptured tears. Annie stood enchanted, by the ambrosial resonance, certain at that moment, that the solitary figure was some type of celestial creature fallen straight from heaven.

But the euphoria was interrupted, when the Gypsy Master set his gaze back on the bewitched multitude. "Do not be deceived, foolish mortals!" he admonished, his voice loud and brash, seeming somehow blemished in the presence of such otherworldly purity. "For it is with beauty that the serpent seeks to trick you. Yet, observe as his true nature is revealed."

With another crack of his cane, the note ceased. Slowly, so very slowly, the figure turned around, walking forth out of the shadows. His head still bowed, a curtain of black tangles concealed his face, but Annie noticed that the grisly lines that intersected his back cut across his front as well. His whole chest was a macabre tapestry of reds and whites and pinks that told a tale of painful lashes and screams in the dark. His arms hung limply at his sides, but Annie could see that his hands were shaking.

"Look upon the people," the gypsy master commanded, "that you wish to entrap with your false beauty and your alluring lies." The figure's whole body began to quake, his all-too-visible ribcage expanding and compressing rapidly with labored breaths, but he still did not look to the crowd. "Look upon these men and women gathered before you!" the gypsy screamed this time, flecks of spittle flying from his mouth in his intensity. "So that they might behold your accursed visage." Annie recoiled when he let his whip fly through the bars of the cage, slicing another cut of cruelty into his prisoner's already battered chest.

It was at that moment that the figure lifted his head, the black curtain parting to reveal a face that was both hideously asymmetrical and deformed. The skin on his right cheek was wrinkled into a thousand little folds that looked papery and rough to the touch, blotched in tones of yellows and tans and reds. His eye was sunken deep into the socket and the right side of his nose simply didn't exist, replaced by a dark black hole. His lips were grotesquely bloated on that side as well, puffy and wide and distended—and such a bright, angry red.

Shrill screams pierced the tent, as women, who just moments before were enraptured by his voice, now scrambled to get away from the sight of his face. Several of the patrons emptied their stomach contents onto the ground before they were able to leave the pavilion, adding to the stench of filth that already suffused the space. "Unholy," Annie could hear them bellow. "Unclean!" "Monster!"

But Annie was rooted to her spot near the cage. As the others were screaming, and scrambling away, Annie noticed something that the rest of them, so caught up in the drama of the moment, had missed. The Living Corpse was just a boy—one with a look of mortification washing over his face, and a single humiliated tear streaming down his cheek as he watched the throngs disperse.

Suddenly, he turned his gaze on her directly. In his eyes, his golden, glowing eyes, Annie could read the fire of intelligence and the spark of determination, combined with all the sadness of the world. And pinned by his gaze, Annie felt her hand reach out and touch the bars.

The boy glanced down and saw her fingers gripping the metal barriers that separated them. He regarded them curiously for a moment, peering briefly back up at her, then down at her fingers once again, his expression softening just the slightest bit. But finally, he set his jaw and fixed his eyes on her once more as he commanded her, "Go!"

And so, Annie did.

* * *

"My glass is empty," came the slurred speech from the slovenly man at the table who was slouching over his dinner plate, an empty vessel in his hand. Leaning her broom against the wall, Annie wandered over to the small kitchen cabinet where the brandy was kept. Choosing a half empty bottle of the amber liquid, she carried it over to the table and twisted the cap, pouring more than was strictly necessary into his snifter.

She waited quietly until he grunted in acknowledgement, and lifted the glass to his lips. Replacing the bottle in the cabinet, she continued to sweep, and as the dust swirled on the floor a haunted pair of golden eyes swirled in her memory.

Since returning from the gypsy fair, she had not been able to stop thinking about the boy she had seen in the tent. Admonishing herself for sneaking out, she had scurried beneath her blankets late that night, vowing that she would not break the rules again. Her mother would not have approved. She had disobeyed and she had seen something awful . . .dreadful. She knew she deserved the queasy feeling in her stomach and the pounding in her head when she remembered the overheated tent or the repulsive gypsy master.

 _But the boy!_ Annie thought, as she continued to move the dirt along the floor. He had seemed so frightened—so … _afraid_. He could not be much older than her, and yet his eyes held the sorrow of a thousand years. So lost, so fragile—so … _broken_. The boy had obviously suffered great abuse. Those scars! _So_ many scars.

Annie shut her eyes tightly against the image as she continued her work, wishing she could sweep the vision out of her mind as easily as she could push the dust out of the cottage door. She had read the shame on his face, although in Annie's mind, there was no reason for it. "I know," she'd wanted to tell him when she'd reached for the bars. "I _know_ …"

Annie started with a cry at the loud clang of the metal dish flying from the table. Remnants of food sprayed all over the wooden boards she had just cleaned. She turned her eyes from the mess on the floor back to the table, where he stood, scowling in her direction.

"Do I have your attention now, bitch?" he snapped at her, with an angry glower.

Annie felt her heart racing, but she refused to let him see her cow before him. "Pardon, Monsieur?" she asked, raising her chin again, to feign the courage that she did not feel.

"I was _calling_ you, little wench," he spat, swaying slightly back and forth.

"I did not hear you, Monsieur," she answered calmly, though her gut was filled with the unmistakable urge to run.

"You didn't hear me?" he asked, lurching toward her, with a drunken sneer.

She would not flinch. _She would not flinch!_

"Well, you didn't clear the table either," he jeered at her, bits of spittle flying from his lips and hitting her on the cheek. "That's why _I_ did it."

Pursing her lips together tightly, Annie's nostrils flared as she took in a deep breath. "I am sorry Monsieur. I will clean it up."

"Damned right you will! And while you're at it," he added, setting his glass—once again empty—hard on the table as he stumbled toward the settee in the small parlor, "bring me another drink."

Annie watched him go, sprawling out when he reached his destination, disheveled arms and legs hanging from the sofa. Without a sound, Annie slowly knelt, grease and gristle covering her fingers, as she began to pick up the pieces of food that were new strewn all over the kitchen floor. As she deposited partly chewed bits of meat, cheese and bread back on the now chipped dinner plate, her mind drifted once again to a pair of haunted, golden eyes looking out at her from behind bars. So sad. So forlorn. So … alone.

"I _need_ a drink, harpy!" came the bark from the next room, and Annie cringed at the despicable sound.

"I know," she muttered under her breath, as she rose to retrieve the brandy bottle, understanding that it would cause him to pass out all the sooner and thus become her salvation. "I know."

 **AN: I hope you enjoyed this first chapter of Prelude! This story has been more than 2 years in the making! But it has been a labor of love. I have the VAST majority of the story written, and I plan on posting regularly-at least twice a week-maybe more. If you like what you read, please stop and leave a review! I love reading your thoughts.**

 **Thanks!**


	2. Chapter 2

CH 2

The boy sat on the hard, dirty floor in the far corner of his cage, metal bars digging into his back. Fetid aromas of dried vomit and unwashed bodies lingered in the stale, stagnant atmosphere that defined his confinement. It was always this way, night after night, in the desolate after hours of the fair, when the wagon doors were barred, and the tent flaps were tied tightly against intruders. Though the boy welcomed the respite from the cries of disbelief and the gawking eyes of the onlookers, he yearned for the soft glow of the moonlight or sweet, cooling kiss of the wind. But he knew such comforts were not for him. He had to make do with the low flicker of the lantern hanging outside his cage, and the noxious, malodorous stench of decay.

He ran the horsehair along the taut strings of the fiddle that had been thrust upon him during the early days of his captivity—when he had been informed that music would be a component of his act. His bow coaxed anguished, mournful sighs out of the distressed instrument—his fingers pressed catgut firmly against the troubled wooden neck—as his mind wandered to the strange encounter the night before with the girl who had not run.

She'd been standing at the front of the crowd, with a full, unobstructed view of his loathsome face. She was there—right before him—when he'd turned to face the throng, locking his foul gaze directly on hers. Others ran from the tent, as he had come to expect—screaming, scrambling wildly just to escape the horror of the "devil's child." And yet, _she_ stayed. She did not flinch, and did not recoil—her deep, dark eyes always focused upon him.

It might have been shock that kept her in place—the horror displayed assaulting her senses until she was simply petrified in her spot. Or perhaps she was a lunatic—too daft to understand the instinct to run. But then she did something that had truly unnerved him. She _reached_ for him—her slender, delicate fingers curling around the cold, metal bar.

He could only stare at the one hand outstretched toward him—anchoring her in place while the multitude sought to flee. _Who is this,_ he'd wondered, _that chooses to stay in the presence of a monster? Why does she not run?_

But logic returned to him before long and he once again pinned the girl with his gaze, commanding her, in no uncertain terms, to go! Finally, with questioning eyes and an almost imperceptible shake of her head, she too hurried out of the tent.

The boy's fingers slid lower on the violin's neck, producing a high pitched keen to pierce the darkness. He closed his eyes, in order to concentrate on the sounds and music flowing from his bow, but all he could see were small, elegant fingers extended in his direction. They were the fingers of a young girl—surely no older than he—and yet, they were not shaking or trembling; they betrayed no fear. Rather they were steady, purposeful—reaching out in front of her, grasping the bars with certainty.

But _why_ had she reached? _Why_ did she _stay_?

A gentle rustle at the front of the tent told the boy that the flap was opening and he tried to shrink even farther into the corner. It was rare that he was disturbed during the overnight hours—not now, not anymore, since he had been taught to comply with the master's wishes. But still, if the man had somehow been displeased by his performance that night, he and his long biting whip might pay a visit, and then there would be another wound to display to the horde in the morning.

It was not, however, the meaty, grimy hand of the gypsy master that yanked the canvas roughly aside. Rather, tiny, dainty fingers separated the opening just enough for the rest of a small, lithe figure to slip inside. Once within the confines of the tent, the cloaked figure halted, and pressed itself silently against the canvas wall, glancing furtively around, as if making certain it had not been discovered. Finally, satisfied that it had gone undetected, it seemed to ease, and a familiar pair of small, delicate hands lowered the hood of the cloak.

Long raven waves spilled out from the dark garment, falling to gently curved shoulders, a few unruly strands getting stuck on cheeks that were lightly reddened by time out in the sunshine. It was the girl—the girl who had reached out for him; the girl who had stayed behind!

Tossing one last over-the-shoulder glance to the flaps of the tent, she began to step slowly toward the cage. The boy watched her closely, but made no motion at all, except to furtively touch his hand to his face, confirming that the rough burlap mask the gypsies had cut for him was still in place. He had no desire to hear her scream.

"Hello," she greeted him, in a hushed voice, and he saw her lips curve upward into a shy smile.

He could not remember a time that anyone had ever spared a smile for him that was not filled with derision or disdain, but this girl did not appear to bear him any malice. Her smile seemed simply …a smile.

Turning his head away from her gesture, and looking off into the shadows, he asked, "Who are you?"

Inhaling deeply, she answered, "I'm Annie," before taking a few more steps toward the cage, adding politely, "What's your name?"

With a little smirk appearing on his mouth, he responded, "Well, come now, you know who I am. I am the Living Corpse. The Devil's Own Child."

Pressing her lips together and swallowing, she protested, "That's not what I meant…"

"Why are you here?" he cut her off, still staring at the tent wall in front of him, not daring to look at her face.

"I heard you playing the violin," she answered in a half-truth, still advancing on the boy's cell. "I liked the music."

"The fair's closed," He quickly quipped. "Show's over."

"I didn't come for the show," the words fell rapidly from her mouth.

"Then why _did_ you come?" he asked, not sure he wanted to hear her response—so certain he already knew the answer. "Were you haunted by what you saw?" he demanded, coldly.

"No," Annie said, shaking her head. "I…"

"Did you feel the need to return," he continued, bitterness rising in his tone, "to convince yourself the nightmare wasn't real?"

"No," she said, "That's not…"

With a dark chuckle he shook his head. "Well, I regret to inform you," he spat, "That I _do_ exist. Your darkest fears _are_ real…the terrors in the night have come true..."

"No," she said a bit more forcefully, stopping the boy's loathsome litany. "I do not fear you!" The boy made no answer, and simply continued to stare straight ahead, but Annie thought she could see him trembling. She added then, in a softer tone, "That's not why I am here. I came…" Annie looked down at her feet in frustration when she realized she did not know _how_ to explain her motivations. "I came…" her voice trailed off on a sigh.

Why _had_ she come? This boy had captured Annie's imagination. She had not been able to stop thinking about him, or seeing his golden eyes glowing in the darkness. But the way he spoke with such vitriol and refused to look at her—it was setting her on edge, making her breath catch in her throat, and her stomach churn.

Perhaps this was not a good idea. Perhaps she should have just stayed home in her bed—like her mother would undoubtedly have wanted—waiting for the sun to rise, and for the whole, interminable cycle to start over again. But then, would she ever stop seeing his eyes?

With a scornful snigger, the boy shook his head and said, "Go home, little girl. Your mother will be looking for you shortly."

Annie squared her shoulders and in a composed, matter-of-fact voice, told him. "My mother is dead, and my stepfather is far too drunk most nights to notice that I am gone."

The steely calm in her tone of voice broke through a bit of Erik's reserve, and he slowly turned his head in her direction. She was close now, almost as close as she had been standing the other night. She did not look upon him with fear or with scorn, but rather with a firm resolve planted in her deep dark eyes.

"I see," the boy responded and Annie thought she heard, a somewhat softened tone to his voice.

"Furthermore," she continued, a bit bolder now that he was looking at her. "I am _not_ a little girl. I am twelve years old! How old are _you_ to call _me_ little?"

The boy turned away again, but this time looked down at his feet forlornly. "I do not know how old I am," he answered, and Annie got the distinct impression that his refusal to look at her this time was because he was ashamed.

Taking the final steps that would put her directly in front of his cage, Annie reached out her hand once more and took hold of the bars. "It's all right, you know," she said gently. "Age doesn't really mean much anyway. Mother… used to say, 'It's not the candles on your cake, Annie, that make you grow older and wiser. It's the things that you have lived.'"

"I think," the boy groaned, "that would make me ancient."

"Well then, I suppose I will have to call you _Old Man_ ," Annie said, with a serious expression, "Since you refuse to share your name."

The boy looked over at her, and detected a note of mischief from her upraised eyebrow, despite her deadpan countenance. A grin tugging at the corners of his own mouth, he informed her, "Then I shall continue to call _you_ Little Girl."

"But that's not fair!" she blurted, her hands flying to her hips, frustration clear in her gaze. "You _know_ my name is Annie, but you won't tell me…"

"Erik," he whispered quietly, cutting off her protest midway.

"Excuse me," Annie asked, a bit startled.

"She called me Erik," he said again, quietly, his gaze once again drifting off, as if he was looking at something—or someone—far away. "When she bothered to call me anything at all."

Annie saw the pain that was present in his eyes, and felt her own chest constrict at the sight. _I know, Erik_ she thought to herself. _Erik, I know…_

"I like the name Erik," she said, out loud. "I shall use it for you always, now that…" Annie's voice trailed off, appearing suddenly shy.

"Now that what?" Erik asked, urging her to finish her thought.

"Well, now," Annie forced herself to continue, speaking her words as quickly as she could, so that she would not again give in to nerves. "That we are to be friends." And she fixed Erik with a wide faced smile.

Erik stared, perplexed, at the girl who was gazing back at him with such cheer. It was clear to him that, as far as she was concerned, a friendship had been formed in the simple sharing of a name. He shook his head, and said to her, "You are a very strange _little girl_."

" _Annie_!" she corrected him with a warning tone.

"Fine," he obliged, and he felt his own mouth curl up into a smile. "You are a very strange _Annie_."

* * *

"Back again, little miss?" the money taker asked, as she stepped up to hand over her entry price.

"I have told you before," she said, sticking her chin up defiantly, "that I am not little."

"She looks positively _tiny_ to me, Yusef!" said one of the other workers who happened to be passing by, pushing a cart of meat kabobs. "But you like 'em that way, don't ya?" He and the money taker shared a mocking laugh, drawing a few of the close by patrons into their joke before Annie tossed her coins upon the ground at the front of his feet, and haughtily made her way into the tent.

"Hey!" Yusef called after her in an angry shout, but Annie did not halt her progress. For a moment, she was afraid he would run after her, but the she heard the worker pushing the cart advise him to forget about her, saying, "The little brat has paid her fee! These customers are still waiting for the privilege."

Relieved that he would not pursue her, Annie continued with her plan.

It was already crowded inside the tent but Annie once again finessed her way to the front of the throng. Erik was in his cage, back to the audience as he had been the other night, head hanging low. Careful to escape notice, Annie stealthily made her way beneath the ropes that had been set up to keep spectators on one side of the tent. Crouching down, Annie crept to the opposite side of the bars.

Erik's face was to her now, but his eyes were closed, and he was breathing very deeply—as if he were trying to ready himself for the madness that was to come. Despite his efforts, however, Annie could see that he was trembling.

"Erik," she whispered, and saw him flinch, as his eyes flew open, then widened in shock.

"Annie!" he whispered back, obviously dismayed to see her, raising a hand to cover the right side of his face.

"I'm here!" she said, smiling at him widely.

"I can see that!" he answered, desperately trying to maintain his whispery tones, even as he could feel anxiety rising in his chest. " _Why?_ "

"I just wanted…" she trailed off, suddenly seeming a bit sheepish. "…to see you again tonight."

Erik glared at her, from behind spread fingers. "Did you not glut your soul on my ugliness the other night?" he spat, his voice dripping with irritation. "Have you not gotten your fill of this hideous visage?"

"I didn't come to see your face, Erik," Annie insisted. "I came because I thought you could use a friend."

Erik stared at this girl who talked of friendship—a kindness that he had never known. A slight red tint was starting to spread across her cheeks, and her eyes darted awkwardly away from his burning gaze. Suddenly, a sense of guilt lodged itself in Erik's chest, and he softened his tone when he said, "Annie, you're supposed to be on the other side of the ropes. If they see you back here…" Just then, the gypsy master entered the tent, carrying his cane and whip, just like the other night. Sheer terror flashed in Erik's eyes as he whispered his last urgent command. " _Hide_."

Annie hunched down even lower, as the man began spew his vile and hateful soliloquy. Erik's gaze dropped away from hers, his head falling again in shame, as the mortifying descriptions of the nature of evil and the ugliness of death washed over him. Small tremors broke out once again throughout his body, and beads of perspiration began to appear on his brow. He looked so afraid of what was to come, and Annie could feel his fear as if it were a knife in her heart. Despite the threat to her own safety, she could not help but whisper, "Erik, I'm here."

And when he looked up again, and met Annie's eyes, she saw his trembling cease.

The act continued in much the same way as it had the previous night—but this time, Erik kept his eyes locked with Annie's, even when he was made to sing, causing the song to sound so much sweeter to her ears. When he was forced to turn and show the spectators his face, Annie noticed that he held his head high, thus avoiding the lash of the master's whip. She was grateful for that small mercy, since the jeers still came, and the running, and the screams. But finally, it was over.

Annie huddled even closer to the ground as the master walked over to Erik's tent reaching into his pocket, and pulling out the piece of burlap cloth that served as a mask.

"Cover up, demon!" he said, spitting in Erik's direction as he tossed the fabric into the cage.

Careful to keep his body positioned so that it would help shield Annie from view, Erik bent over to retrieve the mask, tying it in place immediately. Yusef, the money taker, and the same worker Annie had observed earlier entered the tent, but this time there was no cart of succulent meats. The worker shoved a bowl of some foul smelling substance through the bars. "Here's your supper, freak!" he said, as some of the brown liquid splashed on the cage floor.

"Did they all leave, Sergiu?" Yusef asked the master, as he looked around the tent appearing to be searching for something.

"Would you stay in here with that _thing_?" the master guffawed as he made his way to the exit flap.

Yusef looked around the tent once more, before nodding his head and following the master out.

"Eat up, monster!" the worker from earlier sneered. "You're sure to have a great many customers tomorrow! The people of this town seem to _love_ freaks!" And with a sinister laugh, he exited the tent, tying the flaps as he went.

Erik stood motionless, staring in the spot where the cruel men had been. After a few moments of deafening silence, Annie stood, brushing filth from the dirt floor off her cloak. She quietly asked, "Are you going to eat?"

"No," came Erik's one-word response. He did not turn to look at her, and Annie could tell, from the droop in his shoulders, that he was feeling embarrassed by the treatment he had just received.

"Aren't you hungry?" she prodded, disturbed by how gaunt he already was.

"A corpse does not require food," Erik answered, in what Annie was beginning to recognize as a customary self-loathing response.

Walking around to the front of the cage, so that he would be facing in her direction, Annie reached into the little satchel she kept around her waist, and pulled out a biscuit she had packed for herself for the road. Holding it out to him, she responded, "A boy does."

Erik looked at Annie, and then at the tasty treat she held in her hand. When he did not take it, Annie pushed her hand a little closer to him.

"Take it," she implored him. "Please."

With one last look into Annie's eyes, Erik did indeed take the biscuit, making certain that his hands never touched Annie's skin. Ravenously, he tucked it under the fabric of his mask, bringing it to his mouth, and savoring its delicious sweetness.

"Is that all they ever feed you?" Annie asked, as she watched him feast on what she considered to be a small snack.

"Yes," he answered with a nod.

Annie looked disapprovingly at the bowl—the contents of which looked more like the slop that a pig would eat, rather than something that would be served as a meal. "That just will not do," she commented, shaking her head. "I shall bring you a better supper next time."

"Annie," Erik admonished. "There must not be a next time."

Looking up at him in surprise, Annie asked, "Why not?"

"I do not…" Erik paused, shame reddening his brow. "Wish for you to see me ridiculed night after night."

Annie watched her newfound friend. He looked so forlorn, so mortified. "But Erik," she asked. "Did it not help you tonight to have a friend here in the tent with you?"

Slowly he nodded, but then he added, "But it also hurt." When Annie looked at him confused, he explained, "I have never had a friend before. I should not want my first one to see me mocked."

Annie studied the boy's expression. Though much of it was obscured because of the mask, she could detect a pleading in his eyes that begged her to listen to him. Despite the cruel treatment he was receiving at the hands of the gypsies, Annie realized that Erik had a strong sense of pride. And she did not wish to damage it.

"Very well, Erik," she responded at last. "I shall plan my visits for _after_ the fair is closed." At least that way she could avoid seeing that awful man.

Erik huffed in annoyance and said, "But then you could be caught! Why must you come at all?"

"Because," she informed him, as a matter of fact, "It is even clearer to me now, that you are in need of a friend."

"It is enough," he protested. "To know that that you are out there, and that you consider me such. There is no need to risk your safety coming here after hours to prove it."

"Nonsense!" Annie declared resolutely. "An absent friend is no friend at all. No, you are stuck with me, Erik. Like it or not."

Dumbfounded, Erik shook his head a little, watching her with narrowed eyes. "As I have said before, you are a _very_ strange Annie!"

 **AN: Thank you to all the readers who reviewed/favorited/followed my story! I am excited to hear what you think as things continue to develop. If you have a minute, please review and let me know what you think!**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Bonus chapter for a Sunday afternoon! Hope you enjoy. Please leave a review, if you have a minute. I love reading them!**

CH 3

"Erik!" Annie called in a loud whisper, as she slipped inside the tent. He had been drawing his bow along the strings of the fiddle in a languorous, slow legato, but as he glanced over to her and gave her a nod, he launched seamlessly into the light bouncy spiccato that he knew made Annie smile. Not disappointing him, Annie's face broke into a grin and gathering up the length of her cloak, she ran the short distance to his cage. "I love this song, Erik," she gushed with a twinkle in her deep brown eyes. "It makes me want to dance." And throwing her hands up into the air, Annie whirled and spun, her cloak twisting around her, her hair flying wildly about her face. Finally she stopped spinning, laughing joyfully with the glee of her dance. "Oh Erik," she gasped, between heavy breaths. "You make me dizzy."

"No, Annie," Erik shook his head. "I'd wager you were always a dizzy little thing."

"I am not so very little!" Annie reminded him, defensively, hands on hips, still trying to catch her breath. "You just think so because you're so very tall!"

"I may be tall," he conceded, sitting down near the front of his cage, his spindly legs folded in front of him. "But you're still a very strange Annie."

Her dark eyes rolled at his familiar joke, "Yes, you tell me that every night, Old Man!" she smirked, as she lowered herself to the ground in front of his cage.

"Speaking of which," Erik commented, "you're here early, Annie. We've only just tied the tents and barred the wagons for the night barely an hour ago."

"He passed out right after dinner tonight," Annie informed him. "So I saw no reason to wait any longer."

"Well," Erik warned. "If you'd come any earlier, you might have been seen. If the master finds out that you're here …"

"He won't," Annie told him, in her peculiar manner of speaking which established something to be true, simply because she said it.

"Annie," Erik pinned her with a concerned gaze. "He would hurt you."

Touched by his concern, Annie repeated again, with a smile, "He won't!" Reaching beneath her cloak, she found the leather satchel she had tied to her belt. She lifted out a small parcel, wrapped in paper, and extended her hand through the metal bars. "Here," she said, holding it out to Erik, effectively changing the subject. "Eat."

Erik gave Annie a look that let her know the subject was not closed, but he took the package carefully from her hand and gratefully tore it open. The aromas of seasoned meat and cheese on bread teased at Erik's senses, and with a sigh, he raised the sandwich to his mouth, tucking it beneath the piece of burlap cloth he kept tied around his head, and took his first bite. "Mmmmm," he said, when he was finished chewing. "This is delicious."

"I'm glad you like it," Annie smiled.

They sat there quietly, for a few more moments, as Erik enjoyed the late night meal that Annie had brought for him. Between bites of her own apple, Annie watched him eat.

"You are so very good at playing the violin, Erik," Annie commented, breaking the silence. "How did you learn to play?"

Erik slowly swallowed the bit of sandwich he had been chewing, setting it down on the paper before making his reply. "Before I…left… my mother's house," Erik told her, choosing his words carefully, so as not to reveal too much of his past. "I came across my father's old violin—in the attic, along with all the other discarded items for which she no longer had any use." Erik's eyes took on a wistful stare, as he thought back on the instrument that first introduced him to his greatest love. "I spent hours each day teaching myself how to play—causing a terrible screech the first few times I drew the bow across the strings! But in time I learned how to press the strings firmly, yet strike the bow gently, easing beautiful music out of the violin, rather than forcing a jarring noise. That instrument was my constant companion—beautifully made of glowing rosewood and rich, strong ebony."

When Erik said no more, Annie, wanting to know how his tale ended, asked, "What happened to it?"

The gleam of fondness vanished from his eyes, and swallowing hard, Erik told her, "I played too loudly one night and she heard me. She took the instrument from my hands and…and broke it's neck over her knee."

Horrified, Annie gasped, "That's awful! Why would she do such a thing?"

"She," Erik stated coldly with a tight set to his jaw, "did not appreciate my music. My singing voice she detested most of all—stating that I sang the tempting refrains of the devil himself, inciting her to strange inclinations every time I lifted my voice in song. She forbade me from ever singing. And when she discovered my proficiency on the violin, she said it was the devil's influence in me once again—that playing like that without first receiving lessons was unholy and unnatural. She looked upon it—upon me—as a sin."

"The way you play is not a sin, Erik," Annie told him sincerely. "I think to be talented and teach yourself to play you must be a genius!"

Erik laughed out loud at her ridiculous words, throwing his head back at what he considered the absurdity of that notion. "Oh, Annie," he remarked, "I am no genius. One can teach himself many things if he but has enough time. And at my mother's house, I had nothing but time!"

"Oh really?" Annie asked, her curiosity piqued. "What else did you learn, with the abundance of time you had?"

"Well, let me tell you," he said, the sound coming from behind her, though he never moved from his spot. Smirking when he saw her startle, he continued, "I learned how to make my voice seem as if it were coming from any part of the room or house. I admit, I did it sometimes, just out of spite—to make my mother feel as if she were going completely out of her mind."

"I see," Annie remarked, sternly, having just wondered the same thing about herself. "Well, you can make your voice come out of your mouth again now, thank you very much," she demanded, making him laugh all the harder. When he spoke again, though, his voice was back to its proper place of origin, doing much to calm Annie's nerves.

"I also learned about flying buttresses, vaulted ceilings, and fascinating buildings that were both masterpieces of architecture and glorious works of art. I discovered how artists managed to carve delicate looking drapery out of heavy stone, or how they created the illusion of an endless depth while using only a flat piece of canvas. And I learned how to perform magic tricks—developing the delicate sleight of hand necessary to trick the eye of the beholder into believing some miraculous feat had been performed. Anything I read about in books, Annie, I simply absorbed."

Annie stared at her friend, feeling a renewed sense of awe at his intelligence. "If you were trying to downplay your genius, Erik," Annie said, still gazing at him with wonder, "it didn't work."

When Erik simply rolled his eyes, she asked, "Erik, why don't you use your talents to create a different act for the fair? Your skill at magic combined with your ability to throw your voice would make for an extraordinarily entertaining show. Or your music, Erik! If the crowd could hear you play, they would never want to leave! And you wouldn't have to be subject to such…such abuse night after night."

Erik shook his head with downcast eyes. "I did try to suggest those things, Annie, and at first, when they left me with the violin, I'd hoped they might agree. But they are not interested in my talents, Annie. They have many entertainers, they told me. But my miserable curse of a face brings in the most coin. The audience loves to be terrified. People do love freaks."

A rueful look entered Erik's eyes, and he seemed to have nothing more to say. So, instead, he lifted the sandwich once again to his mouth, and took another bite.

They sat again, in silence, as Erik finished his meal, adjusting the burlap with every bite he took.

"Does it bother you?" Annie finally asked, when once again, her own curiosity got the better of her.

"Does what bother me?" he asked, his words coming out slightly garbled, due to the bit of food he had not finished chewing.

Annie smirked a bit, at having caught him off guard, but then continued. "That…mask—if that's what you want to call it. Doesn't it bother you to have to wear it?"

Erik was quiet for a moment, before answering softly, "I have worn masks my entire life. I had one once, when I was a boy, that hurt very much—because it was getting too small, and she never paid me enough attention to realize. She only noticed when I took it off…" He paused briefly, looking down and swallowing hard. "But this one…no…it does not hurt."

"It looks like it would be terribly itchy," Annie stated, her lips pursed in disapproval at the rough cloth hiding his face.

"I have gotten used to it," he answered, though his hand absently reached up and scratched at his cheek.

"Why do you wear it?" Annie asked, still perturbed at the unpleasant piece of fabric.

Erik looked at her, and even through the mask, Annie could see his eyes were narrow with impatience.

"I mean, when you are alone?" Annie continued. "Why now? In this tent, when there is no one to see?"

"I am not alone, Annie," he chuckled, at her obvious silliness. "You're here."

"But Erik," she shook her head. "I have already seen your face."

Erik nodded, "So have I."

"It doesn't matter to me, Erik," she protested.

"It does to me," he suddenly stood, stopping her argument short, with the tone of anger in his voice. "Even the gypsies," he added, waving his arm in the direction of the wagons, and bending slightly in Annie's direction, "who show off my face to the screaming crowds to take their money, cannot stand to look at me any more than they have to. The first thing they expect me to do after each show is cover up. You saw that!" Erik sank back down to the floor, a bit of his anger spent, tucking his legs up in front of him. "Not that I want to show my face," he added miserably, resting his head on his knees. "I know how ugly I am."

Annie stared at him, moved by compassion at how dejected he suddenly looked. Reaching out her hand, she placed gentle fingertips on his forearm. "You're not," she whispered.

Erik flinched and turned his head at her touch, never having known human contact to be anything other than painful. But as he looked at her delicate fingers resting peacefully on his arm, he was once again unnerved. Turning his bewildered gaze to her soft brown eyes he asked her, "Annie, why don't you see a monster when you look at me?"

Annie shook her head and took a deep breath, saying, "Because, Erik, I have known monsters. And they don't look like you."

If possible, Erik's eyes grew even more confused, as they continued to simply stare at each other in quiet, Annie's hand never leaving his arm.

"Hey! Freak!" Came the loud shouts from outside the tent, as Erik and Annie saw the lights and shadows of torches being carried in the night. "What's going on in there? We heard voices."

"Oh my God, Annie!" Erik's sad eyes were suddenly terrified. "You have to hide!"

Annie's head shot back and forth, her gaze darting all over for somewhere to go. "Where?"

"Over there, Annie!" Erik stood and pointed to a shadowy corner of the tent where some old supply sacks were stacked. "Behind the sacks! Tuck in under your cloak! And then, don't move!" he warned her through clenched teeth. "They cannot find you, Annie! You've no idea what they would do."

With one last look into Erik's alarmed face, Annie nodded and ran toward the corner, scrambling to get behind the sacks just as the flap to the tent flew open.

"What's going on in here, you filthy mutant?" came Sergiu's angry growl, as he and Yusef stormed inside.

"Nothing, Master," Erik responded, feigning ignorance, his violin back in his hand. "I was simply practicing the fiddle—in case you ever had need for it—i…in the show."

The master folded his arms across his chest, not convinced by Erik's story. "It was no violin I heard. I distinctly heard voices—laughing."

Erik's eyes narrowed, as if in confusion. "Why would I be laughing?"

"Why do you do anything, little devil," Yusef shot back. "Except to vex?"

Erik was quiet for a moment, until a thought seemed to occur to him. "Master, could this be what you heard?" And raising his instrument to his cheek, Erik bounced his bow rapidly on the strings, making the fiddle seem to shake with laughter. It was enough to give the men pause, especially since they had undoubtedly heard Erik play a similar passage for Annie when she first arrived in his tent. Giving Erik a grudging glare, the men turned to go, when the master's foot suddenly kicked an apple core across the floor.

"What's this?" Yusef asked, as his eyes followed the remnants of the fruit as it skittered away.

"Nothing," Erik supplied too quickly. "Just a piece of rubbish Marko must have missed when he swept the tent."

"Marko does not miss rubbish," Sergiu countered, turning his furious gaze back toward Erik. In a flash, the angry man was upon him, reaching through the cage and grabbing Erik by the shoulders. Yanking him roughly against the bars of the cage, the master snarled, "How did that apple get here, you urchin? Who is sneaking you food?"

"No one, Master," Erik vowed, praying silently the whole while that Annie would just stay hidden. "I do not know how that apple got here."

"I don't believe you, brat," the larger man sneered, slamming Erik's face, once again, against the bars.

"Master, I swear it!" Erik cried, as the cold steel bars bruised his flesh.

"You lying dog!" the master growled, as he tossed Erik to the ground, spitting on him where he lay. "People are not paying to see a well-fed ugly child. They want a skeleton! A corpse! If I find out who is stealing from my fair for the likes of you, I swear, I will throw them in there with you! And then it will be lashes for you both." With that the men turned on their heels and were gone, once again tying the tent flap against intruders.

For a few moments, all was silent—no movement, not even the smallest sound. Erik lay perfectly still where he had been thrown, listening intently for any sign that the men had come back. Eventually he surmised that Sergiu and Yusef had gone back to their own tents, to spend the night with whiskey and slumber. And that was when he heard the sound of quiet sobbing coming from the sacks of grain.

"Annie," he called softly across the tent, as he righted himself, wondering desperately why she should be crying. "Annie, come out. It's safe."

He saw the sacks begin to rustle as her dark head emerged slowly from behind. When he finally saw her face, it was stained with tears, and she could barely meet his eyes.

"Annie," he called, extending a trembling hand in her direction.

She ran to him and her crying began anew, when she took the hand that he held out and grasped it with all her might. "I'm so sorry, Erik," she blubbered as the tears rolled down her face. "I'm sorry I left the apple, and I'm sorry he was so angry. I'm sorry that they hurt you. I'm just so sorry... I'm sorry..."

"Annie, stop it," Erik said gently. "It's not your fault."

"It is. It is!" she insisted, shaking her head. "How could I have been so stupid as to drop the apple core?"

"It's over, Annie," Erik tried to calm her. "And, truly, I've had much worse."

"I know, Erik," she said, thickly, finally speaking out loud the refrain that had so often played in her head since she met him. "I know."

"But Annie," Erik began in a serious tone of voice, looking directly at her, and waiting for her to meet his eyes. "This is why it's dangerous. This is why he can never know you're here, Annie. He would hurt you." They were each silent for a moment, and then Erik added, "Maybe you shouldn't be here…"

Annie took a deep breath, composing herself and cut him off, saying, "I can take care of myself, Erik."

"Annie…" Erik began, trying to make her see reason.

She squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin, before looking him directly in the eyes and stating, "I am not a little girl, Erik. He will never touch me. I will never let him touch me."


	4. Chapter 4

CH 4

Annie dragged her arm across her eyes to wipe away the tears forming as she chopped the onion for dinner. At least the offending root gave her an acceptable excuse for crying. She had been feeling unbearably melancholy since returning home after witnessing the gypsy master slam Erik against the bars of his cage. Undoubtedly, at today's shows, there would be further physical evidence on Erik's poor face that he was, indeed, the devil's child—more excuse for women to scream; more reason for the crowd to scramble. Little did any of them know that the bruises and marks that would certainly be passed off as some satanic seal, truly were put there by a devil. Only this demon wore a circus suit and top hat, collecting money as profit for his torture. And for this latest torment, Annie was the cause.

Erik had tried to tell her it had not been her fault. Of course he did. Since that early autumn night when she had first displayed the courage to sneak into his tent, she had come to know Erik not only as a brilliant, talented musician, but as a kind, sensitive soul, who would never want to see her sad. His frustrating teasing about her stature aside, he had always treated her sweetly—complimenting her on the homemade treats she would sneak into his tent at night; reading aloud to her when she would smuggle in one of her father's old books; playing the lively tunes that he knew she preferred on the violin, just so that she could dance. The horribly scarred and disfigured young boy she had seen displayed on the stage that night had become, for Annie, a dear friend, and seeing him so mistreated at the cruel hands of the gypsy master had been nearly unbearable.

She thought again about the apple core. How could she have been so stupid? Why had she not shoved it in her pocket, as she scurried across the tent to safety? Why had she simply dropped it in her cowardice? She thought of Erik's face, newly swollen and blackened, as it must be, behind that abominable mask the gypsies thrust upon him. She had been the one who had sneaked in and given him food. She had been the trespasser. Why had she let him take her punishment? Why had she not fought back?

She scraped the bits of onion into the pot with the meat, setting it on the stovetop for browning, as she reached for a potato to continue her chopping. She pressed down on the knife, the sharp blade making short work of the starchy vegetable, when she felt a weighty hand clasp her shoulder. Annie stiffened and closed her eyes, as the acrid smell of alcohol invaded her senses.

"What's for dinner?" her stepfather asked, already imbued with too much liquor, as he peered into the pot.

"Beef stew," Annie supplied simply, not looking up from her task.

The grip on her shoulder tightened, to become a bit uncomfortable. "Mind your manners, girl," came his warning reply.

Inhaling deeply, Annie said, in clipped tones. "My apologies. Beef stew, Monsieur."

"Much better!" he approved robustly, slapping Annie hard on the back, as he made his way to the kitchen table and noisily pulled out a chair.

Annie did her best to keep her skin from crawling, and continued to prepare their evening meal. She heard a soft rustling behind her as her stepfather perused the month old newspaper that had finally made its way south from Paris. He had been reading it for about the past week, but his alcohol addled brain barely noticed.

"You know, girl," he said, just as she had assumed he would be too blessedly distracted, by the paper's listing of not-so-current events, to bother her with small talk. "You have done a fine job of taking on your mother's duties, since she left us." With a hearty chuckle, he added, "I've barely noticed she was gone."

Annie's knife cut through the carrot she was now chopping with more force than necessary, emitting a loud crack against the butcher block. He had barely noticed her mother was gone, but Annie could never forget. "Always be good, my little Annie," her mother had bid her in thready tones, as she lay weak in her bed. Her fingers had trailed to wipe the tears away from Annie's cheek, her own soft dark eyes mirroring her daughter's with so much love. "Whatever life should give you, whatever hardships should befall, you must always be good. You can never let the world change that about you."

"I cannot do it alone, Mother," Annie had sobbed. "I need you with me, to keep me good."

"Oh Annie," her mother sighed, shaking her head as sorrow crept into her gaze. "I fear I cannot stay long—for I am so weak. So … tired. I will stay as long as I can—but soon, I know, I must join your Papa in sleep."

"No Mother," Annie shook her head back and forth, new tears streaming down her face, etching rivers of sadness that she knew would never truly fade. "I am not ready."

"You are, dear daughter," her feeble hand squeezed Annie's shaking one. "Just remember all I've taught you. And be who you are. Be good."

Her mother had lasted a week. A few days after that, she had stood alongside her stepfather, as the priest read prayers over her grave. And then, when they had left her behind, with only a single flower to mark her final resting place, they'd returned to the cottage, where a sponge and a bucket were immediately thrust into Annie's hands.

"You are the lady of the house now, miss," her stepfather had told her in gruff, detached tones. "Its upkeep and its administration shall be left to you. If there is anything that needs be done, that is left unfinished, you shall answer for it—to me. Do I make myself clear?"

With a trembling voice, Annie answered, "Yes, Monsieur."

"I enjoy a clean house," he informed her, as he grabbed a glass and a bottle of brandy from the liquor cabinet. Turning toward the parlor, he added, "See to it that dinner is on the table by 6:30." Annie had heard the clink of the bottle hitting the glass, as he sat down on the settee and began to pour.

Coming back to herself, Annie stirred some homemade stock into the stew, and set the cover on the pot as the heat rose slowly to a boil. Using a cloth, she wiped down the kitchen counter, before taking the butcher block and the knife to the sink to wash. Am I ready, mother? she wondered. Am I ready to always be good, in response to the cruelty that I see every day? Dipping the cutting board into the soapy water, she used the sponge to wipe it clean from any traces of their evening meal. I am trying mother. I am trying to remember what you taught me. She lifted the knife from the water, watching the suds slip away. But there are times I am afraid the lessons are fading.

Drying the knife with a kitchen rag, so that she could place it back in the drawer, she heard her stepfather command "Annie! Girl! Fetch me some brandy—and make it quick. I'm thirsty."

And wrapping the blade in the rag, she secreted it into the little satchel she always kept tied around her waist, before reaching for the bottle.

* * *

"Was it much worse than usual today?" Annie asked, as she sat by Erik's cage, leaning her chin on her knees, her arms wrapped around her legs.

"It was no more embarrassing than usual," Erik answered her matter-of-factly, from where he sat immediately on the other side of the bars. "Same screams—same shouts. The master did point out his handiwork, though. Called them the burns branded in by the devil's very horns. He grows ever more dramatic."

"Oh Erik," Annie moaned, tucking her head more tightly into her knees, her long black hair falling forward and shielding her face from revealing her shame. "I am so sorry about that apple."

"Annie," Erik asked surprised by her reaction. "Are you still upset about that? I told you last night it wasn't your fault."

"But it was my apple that caused him to hurt you," she countered.

"It was only his excuse. He has done worse for less. I am merely an exhibit to him—a money making tool. Sometimes he treats his things roughly."

"You are not a thing!" Annie snapped miserably, welled up tears in her eyes. "And he is a beast."

Erik gazed at Annie quietly for a moment. She was not herself tonight. She looked tired and tense, and her words reminded him of something she'd said yesterday. "Annie," he asked her in a quiet voice. "Last night, right before the …unpleasantness… happened, you said something that I didn't quite understand."

"What was that, Erik?" she asked.

"You said you had seen monsters…" his voice trailed off when Annie looked away, her eyes becoming haunted, her jaw set. "Annie…"

"My stepfather," she answered simply, a dark tone in her voice.

Erik's eyes narrowed in confusion, "Your stepfather?" he asked. "Because he is a drunk?"

"Because he killed my mother," she spat.

"Annie," Erik asked, shocked at her revelation. "How…"

"My mother—Clarice Laramie…oh, Erik, she was beautiful—long black hair that hung to her waist, and deep brown eyes that were so soulful, so kind. She was a dancer—long and lithe—she had once danced on the stage in Paris! But by the time I was born, she and my father—Luc Laramie, my real father—used to dance in the evenings by the fireside after dinner. Sometimes they would take my hands and I would dance with them. Other times, I would simply watch, happy just to see their smiles.

"Papa died when I was five years old, and my mother and I were by ourselves. It was hard, Erik, for my mother to be a widow with a young child. For a few years, we tried to make it on our own, each of us doing odd jobs here and there. But eventually, it became too much. When I was about nine, my mother remarried.

"Randolph Morelle owned a small farm and was looking for a wife to help him maintain it. My mother agreed, and soon they were legally bound. When we moved in, we soon discovered why he needed help. The house was in disrepair, and it seemed that the only things that grew on the land were weeds. My mother slaved day and night, to try to make the rundown cottage a home. She and I planted a garden for vegetables, and scrubbed the house from top to bottom—but it was never enough. There was always something more he wanted—some new demand he saw fit to make on her, as he lay around on his settee, drunk out of his mind most days. And he beat her, Erik. I would hear the crashes as I lay in bed at night, and my mother hurtled to the floor. Her kind, shining eyes were overshadowed by cuts and bruises, earned, he explained to the neighbors on Sunday, through her own clumsy behavior and carelessness on the steps. Her once vibrant smile became tight and closed mouthed—to hide the fact that she was missing teeth—and her dancer's body moved only slowly and with great difficulty, due to the soreness she experienced every day.

"Last winter, she began to cough. My mother used to be strong, Erik. She was never sick when I was young. But she could no longer fight it. He had weakened her too much. She kept working for him at first, until the illness became too great, and she could no longer get out of bed. I tried to stay with her as much as I could, but there were chores to be done, and now he expected me to do them.

"I was with her, Erik, when she passed from this earth. Her last wish was for me to be good. But I don't know if I can do that, Erik. I don't know if I can be good." Annie lowered her head to her knees again, as sorrowful tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Annie," Erik said her name quietly, almost tenderly. "You are good."

"No, Erik," she shook her head still not looking at him. "I didn't do anything to stop him. I didn't do anything to make things better for her."

"You were a child, Annie. What could you do?"

"I could have told someone. Maybe if I had told the neighbors…"

"The same neighbors who believed that your mother—a dancer—was suddenly so clumsy that she cut and bruised herself regularly?" he pointed out. "Please, Annie. You have to know that they knew. And they did nothing."

"I let that beast—that monster—hurt you." She said, turning suddenly to face him, her eyes filled with agony. "I didn't try to stop him. I didn't fight back."

"The whole time, I was praying, Annie, that you wouldn't," Erik told her, in earnest. "I am so glad that you didn't. Annie, if he had hurt you…"

"He hurt you!" Annie spat. "How is that any better? How could it have been worse if it had been me?"

"It would have hurt me far worse!" Erik responded, his voice rising momentarily. Once he had her attention, he quieted his tones and continued, "Annie, you are the first person in my entire life who has seen me for more than a monster. Even my mother denied me because I was not beautiful. Yet you saw my face and didn't run. You come back here, night after night, and you dance for me, you talk with me—you even bring me food. You see me, Annie. Me, and not my face. You cannot tell me that you are not good. You have shown me what good is."

Annie gazed deeply into the golden eyes of which she had grown so fond. She saw so much honesty there, so much sincerity. She knew that Erik was not lying to her—that he believed everything he said. She wished that she could believe, at that moment, everything that he believed of her—everything her mother believed of her. The goodness they each saw inside her—she wished she could see it too. But she knew, even if they didn't, that there was something missing.

"I wish I could be strong, Erik," she murmured, plaintively.

"You will be, Annie," Erik simply told her. "You are."

Annie smiled at him tiredly before once again resting her head on her knees. Without saying a word, Erik picked up his violin and began to play a soft, soothing melody—one he'd hoped would ease her troubled heart and soul. When he was finished, he knew that it had worked, because Annie was breathing steadily, peacefully, and deeply as she sat there curled around herself, fast asleep. He knew she could not stay there. He knew he had to wake her up and send her on her way. But he also knew just how exhausted she was, and there was at least a little time to let her rest.

He watched her while she slept, her mouth partway open, her long black lashes covering over soft, troubled eyes. Her wavy black hair cascaded forward, covering her cheek. "You must look so much like your mother, Annie," he observed quietly, his voice barely a whisper. "So good," he murmured, "So strong." He gazed at her a moment more, and though he knew he shouldn't—that he had no right—he tentatively and slowly reached out a shaking hand to touch a lock of her hair. It was so soft—so silken—in his fingers, and he felt his breath catch and his throat go immediately dry as he added, "And so very beautiful."

 **AN: Awww, I think Erik might have a little crush! So sweet. Please leave a review and let me know what you think!**


	5. Chapter 5

CH 5

"Erik," Annie said as she slipped into the tent, quite adept now at sneaking in unnoticed. "I brought something for you!"

Erik turned to see the excited smile that lit her face, and felt his own heavy spirit begin to lift. He dreaded what he had to tell her, but for now, it could wait. He had never before had a …friend… and he simply wanted to enjoy her company—at least for one more night.

"What did you bring?" he asked, eagerly, imagining the delicious treats she often produced from within her magical little satchel. They were always so much more satisfying than the gruel that was shoved at him by the Gypsies. Erik liked to think it was simply because Annie made them with care. "A sandwich? A biscuit?"

Annie rolled her eyes and giggled. "Yes, silly!" she nodded, reaching beneath her cloak and handing him a freshly baked biscuit. She could see his eyes light up behind his itchy face covering and giggled even more.

"Oh, Annie," he mumbled, once his mouth was half full of biscuit. "This is delightful."

"Thank you, Erik," she smiled. "But that's not all I brought."

Taking another bite of the pleasing confection, Erik watched as Annie produced a well-worn volume from beneath her cloak.

"Another book, Annie?" Erik asked, crumbs clinging to the corners of his mouth.

"Yes, but not just any book. Grimm's Fairytales," she said, as she held the book up for him to see the lettering on the cover. "It was a favorite of mine when I was very little. My Papa would read it to me in the evenings, after dinner," she smiled, as she relayed the cherished memory. "Every night, as the fire crackled in the hearth, I would carry this book to Papa where he sat upon his big leather chair. Then, I'd climb up on his knee, and tuck myself into his chest, and he would open the cover and make the words on the pages come to life. Papa, and later my mother, always encouraged me to try to sound out the words on my own, and I soon could. But that never stopped me from loving it when they would read to me before bedtime."

Erik finished his biscuit and smiled at her sadly. When Annie noticed the melancholy look on his face, she asked him, "What's wrong, Erik?"

"When I was very young," Erik began, in a whispery tone, "my mother made me stay in my room—with windows that were boarded up, so that only the tiniest rays of sunlight could creep through the cracks. She didn't want me to get out, you see. It wouldn't do to have the neighborhood women staring at her freakish offspring. But she couldn't really stand to look at me either—even if I was wearing a mask. So she locked me away, and plied me with books—most likely just to keep me quiet." He snickered darkly, and looked down.

"The books were my constant companions, as you know," he added. "Through them, I could travel to faraway lands, and, learn all about architecture, art, philosophy, and any manner of science you could name. I read the books voraciously. But I never had anyone read to me."

Annie watched as her friend gazed at the book she brought, a faraway look of longing in his eyes. Quietly, she seated herself next to his cage, motioning for him to sit next to her, on the other side of the bars. She opened the cover, and turned a few pages, positioning the book so that Erik could also see the little illustrations on the top or bottom of each page. And then, she began to read.

 _There was once a wonderful musician, who went quite alone through a forest and thought of all manner of things, and when nothing was left for him to think about, he said to himself, "Time is beginning to pass heavily with me here in the forest, I will fetch hither a good companion for myself." Then he took his fiddle from his back, and played so that it echoed through the trees…_

* * *

 _…"At last here comes the right sort of companion," said the musician; "it was a friend I wanted, and not wild animals." And then he began to play so sweetly that the poor man stood as if enchanted, and his heart was filled with joy. And as he was standing there up came the wolf, the fox, and the hare, and he could easily see that they meant mischief. Then he raised his shining axe, and stood in front of the musician, as if to say,_

 _"Whoever means harm to him had better take care of himself, for he will have to do with me!"_

 _Then the animals were frightened, and ran back into the wood, and the musician, when he had played once more for the man to show his gratitude, went on his way._

Annie shut the book and held it, closed, between her hands.

"Thank you, Annie," Erik said, a smile on his face, for he had truly enjoyed having someone read to him for the first time in his life. "That was a wonderful story. I loved it."

"I hated it!" she countered, placing the book down on the ground next to her.

"How could you hate it?" Erik asked her with surprise. "I thought it was your favorite book."

"I do like most of the stories in this book," she conceded, "but I forgot how this one ends."

"But there's a happy ending to the story, Annie," Erik insisted, not understanding exactly what was making her so sad. "The man saved the musician from the animals—he showed his true friendship."

"And then," Annie answered, making her objection to the story clear. "The musician walked away. He finally found a true friend—the right companion he had been looking for the whole time. And then he left him. True friends shouldn't leave, Erik. True friends should not be parted."

Erik looked at her another moment, reminded, once again, of the unhappy news he had to deliver. Taking in a deep breath and swallowing hard against the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat, he said quietly, "They were in here today, between shows, Annie."

"Why?" she asked, suddenly alarmed as she remembered the last time the Gypsy Master paid Erik a visit. "Did they hurt you?"

"No," Erik assured her right away. "No, they did not touch me. They barely acknowledged my presence." He paused, exhaling loudly, his breath blowing up the edge of his mask slightly. "Annie, they were packing."

Annie narrowed her eyes, and shook her head a little. "Packing?"

"Yes," Erik nodded, sadly. "Time has passed, and the fair is moving on." When his friend just stared at him, wide eyed, Erik added, "They came in and gathered up the sacks of grain, loading them into the wagons." Annie, shook her head back and forth as he added, "I overheard them saying we were leaving in the morning."

"No!" Annie spat.

"Annie," Erik tried to reason with her, "It has been a little over two weeks. They never stay in one place much longer than that."

"You can't go with them, Erik!" she insisted again, her voice rising a bit, in desperation.

"Annie," he looked at her with palms upraised toward the sky. "What choice do I have?"

"Then I shall run away and follow you," Annie said, determination firing her spirit.

"Annie, no," Erik rolled his eyes and shook his head. "You cannot do that."

"Why not?" she demanded, rising to her feet and beginning to pace back and forth in front of the cage. "What do I possibly have here that could cause me to stay?"

"You have a home!"

"One I can barely stand being in, because of my drunk stepfather," she responded quickly, still pacing. "Maybe I can talk to the master and see if he could use another act. I can dance…"

"Antoinette Laramie you would not dare!" Erik's voice came booming at her from where he had risen to his feet.

The forcefulness in his voice stopped Annie in her tracks and she turned to look at him. His eyes glowed with a desperation she had not seen before and the knuckles on his hands, where they gripped the bars of his cage, were absolutely white. "You wouldn't dare," he repeated, his voice trailing off on an imploring whisper. "Annie, please…" he beseeched her, his golden eyes glistening. "This is not a life for you."

Annie quieted her own thumping heartbeat as she walked back and put her own hands over his, saying quietly, "This is not a life for you, either."

Erik gazed at his friend, his golden eyes staring into her deep dark brown ones, the skin on his hands, comfortingly warm where she touched him.

"Annie," he said, gently removing his hands from hers, and stepping over to the corner of the cage where he kept his violin. Reaching down, behind it, he rose again to his full height, holding his hands behind his back. "When they were in earlier, packing the supplies," he began, walking toward her. "This fell from the stilt walker's bag and landed just outside my cage. I grabbed it before anyone noticed it had gone missing."

Erik brought his hands around to the front of his body, and held out a long stemmed red rose. "I wanted to give it to you."

Annie shook her head sadly. "Erik, I don't want you to go."

"But I have no choice, Annie," he told her sadly. "Please," he said, thrusting the flower toward her once more, "Take it."

Slowly reaching through the bars, Annie placed her hand on the rose that Erik offered her, but instead of taking it from him, she once again entwined her fingers with his. Looking down at those delicate, elegant, fingers—the first in his life that had ever reached for him—Erik felt tears form in his eyes.

"Annie," he said, his head falling forward against the bars of his cage, "I am going to miss you."

"Oh Erik," she responded, tears in her own eyes as she touched her forehead to his through the bars, "I'm going to miss you too."

"Oh how touching!" Annie turned with a start to see the the gypsy master entering Erik's tent, an angry scowl spread across on his face. "The devil and his little whore!"

Erik's fingers tightened once again around the bars of his cage. "Sergiu," he hissed in disbelief that the man had caught them.

"I thought I heard voices coming from in here. And now you are finally caught. What are you doing here, little girl?" he asked, moving toward her slowly where she stood at the foot of the cage. "It's after hours, as I am sure you well know."

"I am here to visit my friend," she answered, wiping her tears from her eyes and raising her chin defiantly against the source of her sorrow.

The master snorted in amusement. "The freak?"

"Don't hurt her, Sergiu," Erik pleaded with him. "She was just going!" And then, more quietly, he whispered to Annie, "Go! Just walk past him and go."

"His name is Erik!" she spat at the domineering man, disregarding her friend's pleas entirely, placing her body flat against the cage, as if to shield him from the master's view. "You would do well to remember that."

"Annie, stop!" Erik commanded in a harsh whisper. "Just get out of here and go!"

"Oh!" Sergiu raised his eyebrows and asked Annie with a guffaw. "You've named it then? Like a pet." With another mocking laugh, he turned to Erik and asked, "Are you her pet?"

"He is not a pet!" Annie stood her ground firmly in front of the cage. "And he is not a thing. He is a boy, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself, you monster!"

"God, Annie, please," Erik begged her, desperately. "What are you doing? You've got to get out of here."

"Oh," the master smirked once again. "I am the monster? Have you seen his face, you little harlot?"

"Yes!" she shot back, "And I have seen the scars you put on his back as well, you rabid, sniveling beast!"

"No, Annie," Erik groaned, covering his face with his hands. "No!"

"Well, then," Sergiu said, menace entering his voice. "You are not just a trespasser, but a thief, tampering with my property. You owe me, Little Girl. All must pay to see the face of the Living Corpse." And with that, he lunged forward and put his hands roughly on her shoulders.

"Don't touch me!" Annie screamed at him, and kicked him hard in the knee.

The enraged man took in a sharp breath at the shock of pain in his leg. "Little bitch!" he spat, and he threw Annie forcefully away from him.

"NO!" Erik shouted, as he saw Annie's small body fly across the tent, her head hitting the heavy support pole. She slumped to the floor, laying there, motionless, not making a sound, as Erik's heart tore in two.

"There!" The master said, satisfied, brushing his hands together. "That's how I deal with thieves."

"You bastard!" Erik bellowed, shaking the bars of the cage. "How dare you? How could you do that to her?"

"What did you say, little Freak?" Sergiu stared at him, incredulously, his hands moving to his belt buckle. "You dare to speak to me that way?"

"Yes I do!" Erik shouted, hot tears of anger streaming down his face. "You are an evil, evil man who is more akin to the devil than I will ever be! She was not a thief. She was not a trespasser. She was an innocent little girl, guilty of no crime, except for being my friend. And look what you've done to her! Look what you've done!" Erik took in a deep gulp of air as he looked at where Annie lay, still unmoving. "Is she even breathing?"

"You're going to wish you weren't, boy!" Sergiu sneered, contempt dripping from his words, as he removed the belt from his trousers and put his key into the lock on Erik's cage. Erik charged the door as soon as it opened, but he was no match for the older man's superior strength. He was caught immediately in the master's deathly grasp.

"Let me go to her," Erik pled, trying desperately to get away, to check on Annie. "Please let me go to her."

"I do believe you are in love with the little girl, freak," Sergiu observed mockingly, tightening his grip on Erik's struggling body. "For that reason alone, she should wish she were dead." The master slammed Erik's head hard against the bars of his cage, again and again, until some of the fight was knocked out of him. "Annie," Erik cried out, praying that she would somehow waken before the master was done with him. "Annie run!"

"She can't hear you!" Sergiu sneered, as he shoved the wounded Erik down to the floor, and knelt over him, lifting his belt in the air. "And before long, you won't even have the strength to scream!" And he brought his belt down hard on Erik's face. Over and over again, the belt connected with Erik's body—his chest, his legs, his arms—until he was battered and bleeding—a new network of welts covering over his tapestry of old scars. Erik's cries became weaker and weaker, with each blow, but still he moaned, "Annie, Annie, please go."

"Your little tart is not going anywhere, freak," Sergiu cackled. "She's made such a big impression on you," he added, as once again he raised his arm to let the harsh strip of leather and metal fly, "I think I'll let Yusuf have her. He'd quite enjoy her spirit, don't you think? Better yet, maybe I'll keep the little slut for myself."

Then he let out a shriek of disbelief, as he turned to see the girl, a little stream of blood trickling down her forehead, hair spread wildly around her head. She loomed over him like an avenging angel, fierce determination in her eyes, a dripping red kitchen knife in her hand. The stone-sharpened blade had sunk easily into the gypsy master's fleshy back, causing him to still his arm mid attack. "I am not so very little!" she snarled at him through clenched teeth, as she once again lowered her blade, puncturing his throat this time, silencing his loathsome prattle forevermore. "And you will never hurt my friend again!"

Erik stared at her, wide eyed, as she plunged her knife into the master. It's over, he thought, as a river of red began to gush out of the man's neck, his dying gurgles spilling from his mouth. It's finally over. And momentarily meeting Annie's terrified gaze, the hazy black cover of darkness washed over him.

 **AN: Not the BEST time to pass out, Erik! But yes, this nightmare is over. But has something just begun? Please review and let me know what you think of this development!**


	6. Chapter 6

CH 6

The blood. Oh God, the blood. It was everywhere—her hands, her cloak, the ground, seeping into the earth. Sergiu had stopped gurgling—ceased struggling for air. He was dead—and by her hand.

The knife clattered out of her shaking hand, and Annie wrapped her arms tightly around her chest. Frantic words of atonement tumbled out of her mouth as she keened, rocking back and forth on her knees.

 _I'm sorry, Mother_ , _I'm so sorry. I was trying to be good. I was trying, Mother. But he was hurting him, Mother. He would have killed him, Mother. He was going to kill…_

"Erik," she said, and suddenly the haze lifted and her faculties came back to her, a sense of purpose now filling her heart.

Erik was lying beside her, unconscious, blood glistening around his new cuts and wounds. She had to get him out of there. She had to get him to safety.

"Erik," she called, trying to wake him, placing her hands gingerly on his shoulders and shaking. "Erik, please, we have to go."

"Annie…" he groaned weakly, his head rolling back and forth as he began to come to. "Annie, _you_ go. Leave me…don't let him…hurt you."

"He will not be hurting anyone anymore, Erik." Annie informed him, shaking him a bit harder. "He is dead. We have to get out of here."

"Annie, I can't…"

"Erik!" Annie said sharply, and Erik's eyes finally fluttered open to focus directly on hers. "I will not leave without you!" she told him firmly. "If you don't come with me, I'll stay here with you, and we will face the gypsies together. But I will not leave you here alone. I _can't_. True friends don't just leave."

Erik saw the desperate tears in Annie's eyes and it finally registered with him what she had said.

"He's … dead?" he asked her, his eyes narrowed in confusion.

"Yes," Annie answered. "I killed him."

It all came swirling back to Erik then—Annie being tossed against the pole, the master's horrible belt, the struggle, the shouts, and then finally, the silence, and red dripping from Annie's knife.

Grimacing as he struggled to push himself into a sitting position, Erik groaned, "Al…al…alright, Annie. Let's go."

Annie scrambled to her feet and stood over him, stalwartly pushing away her own dizziness to reach out her hand and help him up. When he immediately began to sway and stumble, Annie put her arm around his waist to steady him.

"Come on, Erik," she said gently. "I'm right here. You can do this."

Erik looked at her with hazy eyes and nodded wearily. " _We_ can do this, Annie. Together."

And slowly, they began made their way out of the tent, pausing only briefly for Annie to reach down and grab Erik's violin.

"Annie, wait!" he stopped her, as she made to resume their journey.

"What?" she asked him, her heart nearly beating out of her chest. They were running out of time to escape!

"Your rose, Annie," he said weakly, as he pointed to something on the floor. There lay the flower where it had fallen in the fight with the master, petals partway crushed, but still mostly holding onto the stem. "We have to get it."

Annie huffed in her impatience, "Erik, we _have_ to go…"

"Annie, please," he asked again, more urgently. "I want you to have it."

Annie looked up at Erik, strangely flattered through her irritation that he would ask her to spend precious seconds retrieving the rose she hadn't really wanted earlier. She bent over, rather ungracefully, and grabbed it from the floor, absently tucking it behind her ear.

"All right, Erik!" she said firmly. "Now let's go!"

* * *

It had always seemed such a short trek to the fair to visit Erik. Most nights, Annie had skipped—and often run—down the winding path that led from the farm to the clearing in the forest where the tents and the wagons had been assembled. But as they made their escape, with Annie having to support Erik's weight almost the entire way, while also carrying his fiddle, the journey back to Annie's home seemed long and arduous. She felt as if she were stumbling over every pebble on the trail, and the grunt from Erik when they almost tripped over a branch lying across their way made her feel like the clumsiest girl in the world.

Finally, Annie pushed open the door to the old barn at the edge of her stepfather's property. Since he never came out there anymore, leaving all of the farm chores as well as the household chores for Annie to do, she knew that Erik would be safe.

"Wait here," she told him, as she gingerly eased him down to sit on a bale of hay, resting his violin and bow beside him. "I won't be gone for long."

Lifting her skirts, Annie ran back to the farmhouse and quietly opened the door, so as not to wake her stepfather. Listening for a moment, and hearing his guttural snores, she was assured that he was still completely passed out on the settee. The extra brandy she had poured him was obviously doing its trick.

Quickly, she lit the stove with fingers that trembled only slightly. Setting a pot of water atop the flames to warm, she went about gathering an extra sheet and blanket, along with some other supplies to bring back to the barn. When she had collected all she needed, she poured the water into a bucket, and made her way to tend to Erik.

She reached the barn to find that her friend had fallen asleep where he sat, resting his head against the hard wooden wall. Quickly, she arranged some of the loose hay into a soft pile, over which she spread the sheet.

"Come on, Erik," she muttered, as she stooped low and pulled his arm over her shoulder, trying, rather inelegantly, to drag him over to the makeshift bed. "I only need your help for a minute more."

Murmuring somewhat incoherently, Erik managed to move his limbs just enough to make it over to the pile of hay where Annie somewhat clumsily set him down.

"That's it, Erik," she sighed, bent over with her hands on her knees, catching her breath. It was hard work to practically carry a boy who was so much taller than her. But she had done it, and they were safe. " _Now_ you can rest."

After a moment, she knelt down next to where Erik lay. Dipping a rag inside the bucket of water, she turned to survey Erik's chest. The bloody welts left by the Gypsy master's belt glistened among the bevy of old scars and marks, but thankfully, most of the bleeding had stopped along their journey. Erik flinched as Annie pressed her rag to one of the larger cuts.

"I'm sorry, Erik," she explained in a cringing tone as she wiped away the blood and grime. "I have to clean the wounds, or they will get infected."

"It stings," he groaned, eyes closed, head turned away from her.

"I know," Annie responded shakily. "But it is necessary. I am not doing this to hurt you."

Erik turned to her, and lifted heavy lids to catch her eyes with his. "I know. You _wouldn't_ hurt me, Annie."

Annie felt warmth spread through her body, so pleased that he trusted her, and she gave him a little smile as she shook her head.

"No, I wouldn't. Now please," she continued, dipping her rag again into the warm water. "Just try to rest, Erik, and let me tend your wounds."

Erik smiled weakly back at her, as Annie once again began to wipe the blood and dirt away from his body. They were both quiet, and somewhere during her ministrations, Erik closed his eyes again. By the time Annie had cleaned all the cuts and bruises strewn about his chest, Erik was breathing steadily. She didn't know if it was out of sheer exhaustion from the events of the evening, or a defense mechanism against the water that burned his lacerations, but Erik was finally asleep. She was glad, for she still had one more spot to clean.

Annie scooted upward a bit and reached toward the burlap cloth covering his face. Carefully, she lifted it, and moved it so that it rested near the back of his head. For the first time since the night Annie initially laid eyes on him, Erik's face was completely exposed to her.

She took a moment to study the haunted visage that had caused Erik so much sorrow. She surveyed the grotesque folds of skin covering over depressions of bone, and the lack of structure in the place where there should have been a nose. His bloated lips too, she saw, as they fell partly open with his breathing.

But Erik's head was lolled somewhat to the side so that the half of his face that was not disfigured was closest to her. She scrutinized the aristocratically high cheekbone and the strong, angular cut of his jaw. On this side of his face, his nose was straight and proud, his upper lip a sharply chiseled peak hovering above the gently curved valley of his bottom one. The wisps of hair that played along his outstretched neck were slightly wavy and black, like the lashes that curved now to shield his slumbering golden eyes.

"Oh, Erik," she whispered, as she took a moment to cup his placid cheek with her tender hand, "You could be an angel."

And it was true, for the structure and form of the left side of Erik's face called to mind the glory of celestial figures wielding spears to drive demons into hell. And yet…

And yet. The cruel disfigurement of the right side of his face was evidence that the angel had not left the skirmish unscathed. The effect of the battle scars extended over to the unspoiled half of his face, where the burlap mask left vexing prickles of irritation on the sensitive cream colored skin, and the master's barbarous lash raised a lumpy purple bruise below his eye, where belt buckle had met bone.

Getting back to her task, and dipping her rag once more into the bucket of water, a chilling thought began to play at the corners of Annie's mind. As she wiped away the buildup of dirt and sweat and blood that had accumulated under Erik's mask, the notion crept stealthily in, almost unnoticed, amid her other, more childlike concerns of being good, and making her mother proud. And when she finally tore the mask completely away from Erik's head, with the intention of burning it in the hearth fires, the idea had solidified, taking hold in her brain, becoming the only thing of which she was cognizant.

When she was done cleaning his wounds, Annie reached for the small, soft monkey she had taken from her room. Her father had given it to her when she was little and worried about sleeping by herself.

 _"_ _The monkey is a good guardsman,"_ Papa had declared, placing the toy next to her head as it rested on the pillow _. "He will keep you safe if any monsters should dare to enter your room, sounding the alarm with the clank of his cymbals. He will protect you, and always keep watch over you in the dark."_

Annie gave the well-loved animal a new charge, as she placed him next to Erik who was resting peacefully on the bed made of hay. Pulling the blanket over his skeletal form, she watched him a moment more before that ever present, all-encompassing thought spilled out of her mouth. "I am glad the monster is dead."

* * *

Annie crept quietly back to the cottage, careful once more not to rouse her stepfather from his alcohol induced slumber. She knew the dawn would be coming soon, and she wanted to let exhaustion claim her for at least a few short hours. The morning would bring chores, including the need to wash the blood from her cloak in the stream that ran across the farm. But she was certain she would rest well knowing that Erik was finally away from that gypsy fair and safely sleeping in the barn.

When Annie made it up the staircase to her little corner room, she quickly peeled off her clothes, leaving them on the floor where they fell. Raising her hand to her head she winced as she touched the tender spot where the gypsy maser had slammed her into the tent pole. Annie could feel the dried blood that had crusted there and headed to the wash-basin to dampen a rag in hopes of removing the evidence before going to bed. Once she had dabbed at the cut a few times she walked over to her little dressing table and sat down on the hard backed chair as she stared into the mirror to assess the damage. That was when she noticed another flash of scarlet peeking out from under her sable hair. This time, though, it was not blood. It was Erik's rose.

Annie's fingers lifted slowly to grasp the fragile bloom in gentle fingers. Delicately liberating it from where it had remained tucked behind her ear, Annie brought it in front of her, so she could get a good look at it. When Erik had first offered it to her, it had been lush and round, a perfect rose in full bloom. After the ordeal they had just gone through, it was a bit misshapen, its petals somewhat crushed. Yet, its beauty was undeniable and its fragrance was sweet and strong.

Annie had not wanted the rose in its perfect state, for it had been the mark of a goodbye, the ending of a friendship she had hoped would go on forever. And she had questioned Erik's judgment when he'd demanded they retrieve it before going on their way, tucking it behind her ear in frustration because she had no other way of carrying it. But now she saw the rose as somehow different.

The rose had witnessed hell tonight, and had made it through to the other side. It was not untouched as it had been before—it bore the marks of the rough treatment it suffered. But still—it had survived—and the marks of the struggle somehow made it even more beautiful in her heart.

Suddenly fatigue beat down on Annie and made her ache for cleansing sleep. Taking her rose with her, Annie staggered over to her bed, crawling beneath the covers. The rose lay on the pillow next to her, occupying the place where the monkey once kept watch. And gazing at the bright red petals once more before she closed her eyes, she thought of Erik, asleep in the barn, a blanket tucked to his chin, the monkey standing guard against nightmares.

"We survived, Mother," she whispered as she finally felt her eyelids flutter closed. "We survived."

 **AN: Yes, indeed, they did survive. But what will the morning bring? If you have a minute, please leave a review.**


	7. Chapter 7

CH 7

 _"_ _You wicked, wicked child!" his mother yelled, her biting hand striking his bottom with each syllable, as she dragged him, with her other hand, up the stairs to the attic._

 _"_ _I'm sorry, Mother," he shrieked, wishing she would only stop hitting and dragging him for a moment. He would go to his room freely. He would obey. He could be a good boy—if she would only stop._

 _"_ _Sorry isn't going to work with me, you little heathen," she growled, as she continued their laborious journey up the steps. "Not this time!"_

 _When they finally reached the room, she violently tossed him inside, slamming the door behind her. Erik beat at the door, sobbing wildly, "Mother, mother, please don't go!"_

 _"_ _I shall return, devil," she responded angrily, "Although you'll wish I hadn't!"_

 _Erik crawled to the corner of the room, to await his mother's return. He daren't leave to run after her—not when she was this mad. He wished she wouldn't get so very angry with him. After all, the only reason he had snuck out to the Church in the middle of the night was because she wouldn't let him out of the house during the day. And the Church had such a masterful organ. He had to play it at night, if he was to be stuck in the house during the day._

 _When his mother returned, she barely looked at him. Under her arm, she was carrying some wooden boards and in her hand she held a hammer._

 _"_ _W…w…what are you doing mother?" Erik asked, nervously._

 _"_ _I am making it," she responded, as she fitted the first board against the window, "so that you can never leave this room again without my permission."_

 _Erik felt the panic build in his chest. "Mother no," he begged, running to her and pulling on her skirts, as she began to hammer away. "Mother, please!"_

 _"_ _Away from me!" she commanded, shoving him hard in the other direction with a shift of her hips. "You knew you were never to draw attention to yourself among the villagers."_

 _"_ _I know, Mother," Erik admitted. "I didn't!"_

 _His mother turned on him violently, lifting her hand as if to strike. When Erik cowered a bit away from her, she asked, "You dare lie to me, boy?"_

 _"_ _No Mother," he shook his head back and forth. "But I didn't draw attention to myself. I only went to the Church to play the organ. At night, when everyone was sleeping."_

 _His mother gave him one more disgusted look, and turned back to her hammering. "But the racket you caused roused everyone from their beds. 'The song of angels,' they said." She rounded on him again and spat, "Imagine if they knew it was not angels, but rather the devil himself who worked the pipes!"_

 _Erik's head fell low. It was wrong, what he did. He should not have gone from the house. The beautiful organ music—it wasn't for him._

 _"_ _I will never do it again, Mother," Erik said, penitently. "I promise you, Mother, I will never leave the house again."_

 _"_ _You are right. You will not!" his mother said, reaching for another board. "I will make certain of that."_

 _Erik watched as his mother continued to pound the nails into the wall. Little by little, the darkness grew in the room, until only a few feeble rays crept in through the spaces between the boards. "There," his mother said, as she surveyed her handiwork. Without another word, she turned to leave the room._

 _"_ _Mother," Erik grabbed at her skirts again, to stop her. "You cannot mean to leave me here."_

 _"_ _Of course I am going to leave you here, you worthless child!" she snapped in irritation. "This is, after all, your room."_

 _"_ _But it is dark. And there is no light nor any air coming in through the window,"_

 _"_ _You have only yourself to blame for that!" she retorted, pulling her skirts roughly from his hand, and walking out of the room. She shut the door behind her and Erik heard the snick of metal in the lock._

 _"_ _Mother!" he called, when he tried the handle and realized it wouldn't budge. "Mother!" He cried again, feeling hot tears spring to his eyes. "Mother!" he bellowed again and again, as he slumped to a sobbing heap on the floor. But no matter how hard he cried and screamed for his mother, Erik was left alone—in a room with no light, and only stale, stagnant air._

A gentle breeze swirled around Erik as the smell of straw wafted up to his nose. The ground was soft—if a bit lumpy—beneath him. Birdsong teased his mind awake while golden rays playfully tickled at the corners of his eyes.

He was still a bit disoriented as his eyelids fluttered open, and took in surroundings that were not at all what he expected. There were no metal bars, surrounded by a dark, malodorous tent. Rather, he appeared to be in a barn of some sort. Bright yellow sunlight streamed through an overhead window, a thousand particles of dust dancing within its rays. He was not lying on a cold hard floor—but on a _bed_ of sorts, made of hay and covered over with a sheet. And atop his body, pulled up tightly to his chin was a soft, woolen blanket to keep him warm against the nip of the cool autumn air.

 _Annie did this,_ Erik thought, as memories from the night before came slowly trickling back to him. The tears on her face when he told her he would be going; the master's cruel blows when he found them together; the blood when Annie put an end to the man's abuse. Details went a bit hazy after that, but somehow, Annie must have brought him here.

But where _was_ here? Where was Annie?

"Annie!" Erik called, trying to shift himself into a sitting position. The sharp throbbing in his head pushed him back down against the hay, and Erik saw stars spin behind his eyes for a few moments.

"Annie," he called again, his voice a bit weaker this time. He knew she had to be nearby. She wouldn't leave him here alone—would she?

Erik turned toward the door of the barn, and that's when he saw it—a little stuffed monkey, wearing a red colored vest and holding tiny cymbals in his hands was sitting on his pillow. Despite the aching in his head—despite the confusion in his mind—Erik smiled at the sight of the little animal. He reached out first to touch the monkey's soft head, then to tap the little cymbals together, smiling a bit at the sound. "A musical monkey," he said with wonder, and he knew that Annie must have left it.

"She didn't leave me alone," he whispered, as he gazed a moment more at the stuffed creature. "True friends don't just leave," he murmured, and something in the phrase struck him as familiar.

At that moment, the doors swung slowly open, and sunlight flooded the barn, almost blinding Erik with its brightness.

"So I see you've met Ami," he heard the familiar voice say, and he looked up to see Annie's dark silhouette framed against the light.

"Ami?" he asked, as she came fully into the barn and shut the doors behind her.

Scampering over to kneel beside Erik, with a smile on her face, she answered, "Yes, Ami," she glanced fondly at the monkey. "My father gave him to me, when I was younger and afraid to sleep on my own. He has guarded me against nightmares and the terrors of the dark for many years. But he shall stay with you, now. So you don't have to be alone."

Erik's brow furrowed as he looked at the monkey who seemed to have grown greatly in importance with Annie's story. He searched for words to express the strange feeling that was spreading across his chest, but the effort only made his head pound even harder. Gazing back at his friend, he simply said, "Annie…" before his voice trailed off at a loss.

Annie only smiled and greeted him warmly. "Good morning, Erik." He noticed then that she was holding a bundle of something in her hands, which she placed at the foot of his makeshift bed. "I brought you some of my father's old clothes," she explained. "You're going to need something new to wear, since your shirt…" Annie let her voice trail off before saying that his own shirt was torn, and now covered in blood.

"Annie," Erik asked her, eyes narrowed. "Where are we?"

"We are in the barn on my stepfather's property," she informed him. When his eyes grew wide with alarm, she added, "But don't worry! He never comes out here. All the chores are left for me to do, so you will never be discovered. You are safe."

Erik looked around the structure some more, asking, "How did we get here?"

Annie smirked at him. "Do you really not remember the journey? Well, I suppose not. You were half passed out the whole time."

"Passed out?"

"Yes, from the Master's blows," Annie informed him, as a bit of darkness began to enter her eyes.

Erik nodded gingerly, trying not to disturb his head any more than necessary. "Yes," He muttered. "I remember them."

"You leaned on me," Annie said, filling in the gaps in his memory. "I helped you walk. It took a while, and it was a bit difficult, but eventually we made it here." She paused a moment before adding, "Together."

Together. The concept was foreign to Erik. He'd read about it, of course, in the many volumes he had pored over to pass the time while locked away in his attic room. But he had never before done anything _together_ with anyone else. He had always been alone, even when still living with his mother, who would rarely occupy the same room as him. Eventually, he had grown accustomed to it, turning instead to the piano for company on the occasions that he was allowed out of his room—the violin, or his books when he was not. At the Gypsy fair, he'd learned to crave solitude, because when he was alone, nobody was hurting him—nobody was screaming. No, togetherness was not something Erik had experienced, nor something that he really understood. But now, looking into his friend's warm brown eyes, the concept seemed somehow right.

"You cleaned my wounds," he stated, more memories coming back to him now.

The corners of her eyes crinkled into a sheepish expression. "Yes, I know that it stung," Annie remarked, "but it was necessary, and I'm so sorry…"

"No," Erik interjected, halting her apology. No one had ever cared enough before to see to any wounds he had received, so it had been somewhat unexpected. But he understood Annie's good intentions. "Thank you."

Annie smiled again in relief, and gave a little nod as she said, "You're welcome."

"Is he really dead?" Erik asked softly, changing the subject to discuss the fate of the man who had inflicted those wounds.

Annie looked down and closed her eyes, muttering, "Yes."

"You were carrying a knife," he observed.

Annie sighed and nodded, "That night that he slammed you against the bars, and I could do nothing but hide—I never wanted to have to do that again, Erik. I never wanted to have to hide. For too long I cowered while my stepfather beat my mother into an early grave. I didn't do anything then. But last night…" she sighed again, running a hand through her hair, not knowing exactly how she wanted to continue. "Last night…"

"You _saved_ me," Erik finished her thought for her, realizing she was too emotional to continue.

She met his eyes again, quietly, and nodded. With her hair still somewhat askew from when she had ruffled it, Erik was able to get a better look at her forehead. There, on the right side of her head was a long, purplish bruise, and Erik's memory flashed to the scene of Annie hitting the tent pole hard. He recalled how she had slumped on the ground, not moving, and how he had screamed her name, trying desperately to get to her.

Every fiber in Erik's being warned against what he was about to do next. His hand trembling with trepidation and his lungs entirely unable to draw breath, Erik touched his fingertips lightly to her forehead, cautiously tracing the outline of the bruise. He halfway expected her to draw back in horror, as his mother always did when he would reach out to her for any sort of contact. But Annie did not flinch. She did not pull away. Once again, she _stayed_. She sat there next to him, and Erik watched her eyes flutter closed, as if she took some type of comfort from his touch.

And at that moment, all the outrage and all the anger Erik felt at the master when he viciously threw Annie across the tent came flooding back. Pulling his hand away and curling his fingers into a fist, he uttered, "I'm sorry Annie."

Annie's eyes shot open and she looked at him in confusion, seeing the absolute hatred that

colored his face. "For what?"

"For letting him hurt you," he spat in anger, turning his face away, in self-disgust. "For not saving you."

"Erik," Annie countered, "You cannot blame yourself. You were in a cage!"

"Like an animal!" he spat, his golden eyes aflame with the heat of his anger. "And I _let_ them keep me that way! I should have fought the master, Annie! I should have hissed, and spat, and clawed like the beast he thought I was until I could get to you. I should have been able to save _you_!"

"Erik," she reached out and took his hand in hers, stroking the palm gently. "It's over now. He cannot hurt either of us ever again."

Erik gazed down to where she held his hand, still so unused to her touches, but finding that he was beginning to crave them.

His anger slightly cooled by her soothing ministrations, Erik met her eyes again, making a solemn vow. "I swear to you, Annie, that I shall never let any harm come to you again. You saved me, when I could not save myself, and I promise, from now on, I shall _always_ protect you."

Annie's eyes grew a bit misty as she smiled back at her valiant friend. Letting go of his palm, to reach for his face, Annie cupped his cheek in her hand and vowed in return, "We shall always protect each other."

And at the feeling of her assuring touch on his cheek, Erik felt his chest tighten and his heart skip a beat. Confusion, however, quickly set in, and it was with wide, unbelieving eyes that he asked, "Annie, where's my mask?"

Annie gave little breathy laugh. "It's gone."

"Gone?" Erik asked in disbelief, ignoring the pain in his head to finally push himself into a sitting position. "How?"

"I took it." Annie answered him simply.

"What? Why?" Erik stammered, holding his hand against the right side of his face. "Give it back!"

"What?" Annie asked, shocked by his request. "No, I'm not going to give it back!" She shook her head in disgust. "I'm going to burn it!"

" _Burn it?_ " Erik asked in outrage. "Annie, I _need_ it!"

"Erik," Annie tried to convince him. "No, you don't! It scratched your face something awful, and left red marks."

"What are a few scratches," Erik practically shouted, "Compared to this?" He pulled his hand away from his face where it had been shielding his deformity.

If he had been expecting some type of dramatic reaction, he was sorely disappointed, for Annie just continued to look at him, her jaw set, her eyes meeting his, entirely unfazed.

"I think a few scratches are horrible," she told him firmly. "You should not have to suffer them."

"Annie," Erik implored her desperately, gesturing to the right side of his face. "Don't you see this curse? This abomination that I was born with?"

"I see your face, Erik," Annie told him resolutely. " _Both_ sides." And folding her arms across her chest, she added, with finality, "And each has suffered enough."

Erik stared at Annie dumbfounded, still finding it difficult to believe how unaffected she was by his countenance—the horror of which had sent so many others fleeing in disgust, the mirrored reflection of which had traumatized his younger self. But there she sat, arms crossed in determination, eyes gazing straight at him—with no hint of derision or disgust. Only acceptance. And stony resolve.

"Annie, I need the mask," he told her quietly. "I have never gone without one. I feel…somehow… _wrong_ when I am not wearing it."

Annie stared at him a moment more, as if she were thinking. She then rose, without a word, and walked to a storage closet on the other side of the barn. After a moment, she emerged with a pair of scissors and some twine, walking back to Erik's bed. She rummaged through the bundle she had placed at the foot of it, and pulled out one of the shirts.

When she sat down and began to take the scissors to it, Erik asked her, "What are you doing, Annie?"

"You said you needed a mask," she answered. "I refuse to give you back that flea ridden, burlap piece of rubbish that the gypsies made you wear. So I am making you a new one."

"Annie," Erik said, feeling suddenly ashamed for having made such a fuss. "That is your father's shirt."

"There is another one in the pile," Annie informed him matter-of-factly. "You will simply need to wash it in the stream more often. Besides," she said, as she cut a neat swath of fabric from the bottom. "You may yet be able to use this one—it'll just be a little short, since you are so ridiculously tall!"

Erik watched as Annie cut the fabric to a flap that would fit his face, making a curved bottom, so that his mouth would be unobstructed. She cut two holes for the eyes, and another two to thread the twine through. When she handed her handiwork over to him, Erik looked at it for a moment before carefully tying it around his head. It was soft, and fresh smelling, and immediately Erik could appreciate the difference between it and the rough-hewn one he was forced to wear by the gypsies.

"Better?" she asked, as she tilted her head to the side, surveying the way the mask looked on him.

"Much," Erik sheepishly admitted that once again, Annie was right.

"Good," she nodded in approval. "I have some chores that I have to do around the farm," she informed him, rising to a standing position. "I will be back later. Why don't you get changed and take some time to rest. I know your head is still hurting you."

"Al…alright, Annie," he agreed, and she smiled as she turned to go. Just before she walked out the door, he called back to her, "Thank you."

"Of course," she flashed him another smile and was on her way, closing the barn door behind her.

Erik lay back with a sigh on the straw bed Annie had fashioned for him, and just stared up at the beams of the barn ceiling above him. His mind was swimming with the events of the last few weeks. Remembering everything that had happened in such a short time was not making his head feel any better.

From the corner of his eye, Erik spotted a little shock of red. He turned once again in the direction of the monkey that Annie had gently laid on his pillow last night. "So you don't have to be alone," she'd said.

Erik smiled, as he gathered the monkey in his hands and stroked its soft fur. "I _have_ always been alone," he whispered to the monkey. "No one ever wanted to be in my company." Until Annie—that strange girl who twirled in circles when he played the violin and giggled as he bowed the strings faster and faster; that loyal girl, who visited him in his cage and snuck in treats to quell his hunger; that strong, brave, wonderful girl who looked upon his face and chose to stay. "But no more," Erik added, once again tapping the monkey's cymbals together. "I am no longer alone."

Later that night, the two friends sat outside, leaning back against the far side of the barn, and witnessed the old burlap mask burn in the flames of the little bonfire that they had built. "It's really over, Erik," Annie whispered, the light from the fire dancing in her gaze, as she smiled at the mask's demise.

Erik watched his friend, her face illuminated by the orange warmth of the dancing flames. He thought to himself again how brave, how strong, how wonderful, and how very _very_ beautiful she was. And as she reached over absentmindedly and entwined her fingers once again with his, Erik was reminded that yes, the torture with the gypsies was finally truly over. And something new had just begun.

 **AN: The torture is over, and Erik is not alone. And if Annie were to have her way, he never would be again. Please let me know what you thought!**


	8. Chapter 8

CH 8

"You know, Erik," Annie said as she pushed open the door to the barn. Erik silenced the scratch of his pencil and looked up from the notebook he had on his lap. He was sitting with his legs curled up under him on his little hay bed, and a smile broke over his face when he saw her standing in the doorway, several sheets of paper in her hand, a basket hanging on her arm. "When I brought you that notebook and pencil, I thought it was so that you could write down pieces of music. Or some of the brilliant ideas that pop into your head. I did not expect," she continued, walking into the barn, the pages in her hand rustling as she waved them in front of him, "To be finding notes from you all over the farm."

Annie brought the sheets in front of her and began to read. "A—Chopped and stacked the firewood.—E. A—Fixed the loose board in the fence.—E. A—Milked the cow and gathered eggs from the hen house.—E." Annie looked up at him in exasperation, her arms now lifted to the ceiling "Really, Erik!" she huffed. "All of this? Overnight?"

Erik's mouth curled into a crooked grin. "I don't sleep much, Annie, and I see exceptionally well in the dark, with just the smallest glow from the moon to light my path. I thought I'd take advantage of that and get some work done. Besides," he said, rising and walking over to her. "I didn't plant the winter garden. We still have to do that."

"Oh, _we_ have that to do?" Annie asked, hands on her hips, with one eyebrow raised into an arch. "Are _we_ going to do it, or are _you_ going to take over, like you are doing with everything else?"

"I enjoy working with my hands, Annie." Erik insisted, brushing off his friend's annoyance. "I enjoy being outdoors! For so much of my life, I was shut up in a room, or a cage. It's wonderful to actually be outside and enjoy the fresh air while accomplishing tasks about which I had heretofore only read. And," he continued, a glint of excitement entering his eyes, obvious even through the mask, "I can feel myself getting stronger. It is no longer difficult to lift the axe to chop the wood, or to hammer nails into the boards of the fence. Why I'm getting so strong," he said, the excitement in his eyes changing over to mischief, "that I'd wager I can even lift you!" Erik suddenly reached out and took Annie by the waist, lifting her high off the ground.

"Erik, put me down!" Annie immediately squealed, taken by surprise. She swatted at his shoulders good-naturedly until her feet were once again firmly planted on the barn floor—which, naturally, had been neatly swept—overnight.

"Of course," Erik added, with a smirk, "It is really no great task to lift you anyway—since you are a _puny_ little thing."

Annie glared at him, eyes scrunched, nostrils flared with mock annoyance, "I only seem puny because you are so obnoxiously tall!" When Erik snorted with laughter at her claim, she added, "I swear, you're taller now than you were when I dragged you here a month ago! You're beginning to resemble a tree!"

"Perhaps it is all that food you keep bringing me," Erik mentioned looking at her expectantly.

With a roll of her eyes, Annie lifted the towel from her basket to reveal some freshly baked biscuits, ham and a couple ripe apples.

"It smells delicious, Annie," Erik said, looking down at his breakfast. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Annie said, grudgingly, as she sat herself down and spread her towel on the floor, setting out the food for Erik's meal. "But if you lift me off the ground again, Erik, I swear, it is going to be gruel and water for you from now on!"

Erik laughed, taking his own seat across from her, and even through his mask, Annie could see genuine happiness behind his eyes. Though she was trying to maintain a gruff exterior, she could not help but smile at the sight. When she'd met Erik a little over a month ago, he had seemed so guarded, so frightened, so sad. But it had not taken him long to start coming out of his shell once she had helped him escape the nightly torture of the fair. She had seen in him a sharp intelligence, a graceful artistry and a natural genius when it came to music. And yet, the simplest kindness from her seemed to delight him beyond measure, and seeing the joy that lit his eyes, made Annie feel warm inside and…happy.

"So, Erik," she asked, taking one of the apples and lifting it to her mouth for a bite. "What were you working on when I got here? A symphony? A sketch?"

Erik looked up at her, a chunk of ham in his mouth, with eyes that looked positively sheepish. "I was writing a bit of music, Annie," he admitted. "Not a symphony, but a song."

"Well, finish your breakfast," she insisted in excitement. "I want to hear it!"

Erik sighed, and Annie wondered if she would have detected a bit of a blush if he hadn't been wearing the mask she'd fashioned for him. "Annie, we have a big job waiting for us today, with the garden," he said, as he took a bite of his biscuit. "We have to pull all the dead growth, and till the soil and then…"

"Well," she remarked, "isn't it lucky then that you saved us so much time, getting so many of the other chores done last night? Surely we have time to spare for a song."

Wordlessly, Erik took another bite from his biscuit, simply nodding in agreement with her statement.

When he was finished with his meal, he brushed the crumbs away from his mouth, as Annie folded up the towel and placed it neatly back in her basket. Never did he look at her as he rose to retrieve his violin. Returning with the instrument, Erik opened his little notebook and turned to just the right page. With a deep breath, he placed bow to string.

Annie could not understand Erik's sudden nervousness when she heard the ethereal notes that emanated from the violin. The music was delicate and lilting, with flowing, intricate runs and warm, lush melodies. It pierced Annie's very soul with its elegance and grace, until she closed her eyes, allowing herself to get lost in its beauty.

Annie's eyes remained closed, an expression of serenity on her face, when Erik finally silenced his violin and muttered, bashfully, "That's as far as I've written. I know it isn't much, but it's a work in progress. A…a beginning."

Annie's lids fluttered open and she looked at him, once again, feeling his discomfiture. "Not much?" she asked. "A work in progress? Erik," she smiled, saying, "it was perfectly lovely!"

Erik held her gaze for a moment, and Annie noticed a softening in his expression before he looked down and muttered, "Well, it _was_ inspired by perfect loveliness."

Annie's eyes crinkled and she asked, "Erik, why are you suddenly so shy?"

"I'm not _shy_ ," he said defensively. "I am just not used to sharing my original work with anyone. There has never been anyone who had cared enough to hear it."

"Well," Annie said, rising from where she had been seated on the floor, and walking over to him. "Get used to sharing it! One day all of Paris will want to hear your music! This," she said, turning her head toward the notebook, "is a masterpiece!"

Erik quickly grabbed the notebook out of her view and closed it in a huff. "This," he countered, "is simply a beginning."

Erik took the notebook and his violin and stashed them behind the straw bed, before stalking over to the barn door. "Well!" he said impatiently, turning to face her, "Are you coming? We've got a lot of work waiting for us!" and with that, he stormed out the barn.

Annie watched Erik as he went, a smile forcing its way onto her lips, despite her companion's boorish behavior. For when she had glanced at his manuscript, before he had so rudely torn it from her sight, she'd caught a glimpse of what had been written on the page. Music notes swirled and dipped on hand drawn staves, where time signatures and key notations expertly set the parameters for the musical journey. But above it all, scrawled in the childish hand that she had come to recognize from Erik's notes, was the title of the piece. " _Annie."_

She felt a joy bubbling in her chest, and could tell that a rosy tint was coloring her cheeks. The song was for her! He had written the song for her. _It was inspired by perfect loveliness_ , he had said, when she'd commented on how beautiful it was. And he had written _her_ name across the top of the page!

She basked in that bit of stolen knowledge a moment longer before taking a deep breath, and carefully wiping the smile from her face. When, finally, she had composed herself, she hurried to catch up to her bashful companion.

* * *

Annie looked down at her plate, scraping bits of food around with her fork. She was sore and she was achy from the physically taxing day she had just spent preparing the soil to grow their winter vegetables. Though, as she predicted, Erik did most of the work, she was still exhausted. She willed her stepfather to pass out quickly in his customary alcoholic stupor so she could run to the barn and share her real dinner with Erik, then crawl back upstairs into her bed where she would enjoy the sleep of the dead. After all, she smirked a little to herself, as she pushed a pea under the pile of mashed potatoes on her plate, she didn't have to worry about waking up early to milk the cow. Erik would see to that.

"Get me a biscuit." Her stepfather grunted, mouth full of potatoes, as he reached for his glass of brandy.

Annie looked up at him and said, "There aren't any left."

"There should be," he mumbled. "We had biscuits for breakfast."

"Yes, I know," Annie retorted, annoyed at the way he commented on the food as if it just magically appeared. "I made them."

"Well, where are the rest of them? I certainly didn't eat a dozen of them this morning."

Taking a deep breath, Annie lied, "I only got 6 out of the batch this morning. They were big biscuits."

Her stepfather's face became cross. "You better not be sneaking any food when I'm not looking you little brat," he warned, beginning to slur his speech. "I ain't spending my hard earned food money for you to get fat!"

"No," Annie mumbled, once again looking down into her plate. "Just for you to become drunk."

"Did you say something, wench?" he glared at her.

"No, stepfather," Annie answered simply.

"You know," he began, looking at her suspiciously, "I had a knock on the door today,"

"Yes?" she looked at him expectantly, surprised that he had been sober enough to hear the knock.

"It were some bedraggled looking gypsy folk, spouting off about some property of theirs that had wandered off."

Annie felt cold fingers of fear grasp her heart. "What kind of property was that," she asked, reaching for her own cup of tea.

"Said a slave of theirs killed the master and made off into the night. They were part of the fair that was set up not far from here about a month ago. Do you remember it?"

"No," Annie said, sipping her tea, "I never made it to that fair. Too busy working the farm."

"They said the slave had been a big money maker for them. An ugly freak, they called him, with a face like the devil's. One of their biggest draws! But then, in an act of pure wickedness, he killed the master the night they were about to tear down their camp, and disappeared into the night."

"Out of wickedness? Really?" Annie muttered under her breath as she once again raised her teacup to her mouth, her hand beginning to tremble slightly.

"What did you say?" the stepfather asked her, eyes narrowed, and Annie cursed her own loose lips.

"I asked what they were doing here," she responded. "I thought the fair moved on to the next town. Certainly someone else stepped in to take the master's place." She thought of Yusef, the slimy money taker, figuring he would be the most likely culprit.

"Seems they're not making the same money they used to make, so they sent a few of their members back to see if the bastard was maybe still loitering around these parts."

Annie's fingers squeezed the handle of the cup so tightly that her knuckles went white, "Why would he still be loitering around here? I would think he'd want to get as far away from here as possible."

"A face like his would draw a lot of attention, they said. They were just wondering if he could be hiding in this area, laying low, waiting for them to get farther away before he tried to escape. They're offering a reward for his return."

The handle finally snapped under the pressure of Annie's grasp, and the cup fell, shattering to the table, tea and glass shards flying everywhere.

"What in the hell was that for?" her stepfather bellowed at her, as he rose from the table.

"I'm sorry," Annie responded, looking down at the line of red that was opening up on her hand. Blood. Just like the master's on that terrible night. . .

"Stupid bitch, breaking my property like you owned it," the burly man spat at her.

"It was my _mother's_ teacup!" She shouted back at him in a moment of ill-conceived defiance, the blood from her hand already dripping down to her skirts. "All you have are beer glasses and brandy snifters. It wasn't _yours_!"

The slap cracked loudly against Annie's cheek and her eyes clamped shut against the pain, as she heard him snarl, "Everything of your mother's belongs to me now, _including_ you! You better not forget your place, you little shrew! You are getting more and more like your mother each day," He barked at her. "—uppity and aggravating with your nose in the air like you're better than me. She thought she was so much better than me too, but she was really only good for 3 things—cleaning my house, tending my farm, and warming my bed! You only do two of those things, so you're even more worthless than she was. You saw how I disciplined her—don't think that I will hesitate to discipline you!"

 _Don't cry, Annie,_ she told herself inwardly as his tirade continued. _Don't cry. Just be good, Annie. Just be good._

 _I'm trying, Mother. Really, I'm trying._

When her stepfather had finally spent his rage, he threw his chair under the table with a loud bang. "I expect you to make breakfast properly in the morning, girl," he warned her. "With enough biscuits left over for dinner. Now make yourself useful and clean up this mess! And when you're done, bring me a glass of brandy," He commanded as he started to make his way to the settee. "I need something to calm my nerves after having to deal with the likes you! Worthless piece of rubbish," he added under his breath.

Slowly, Annie rose, staggering slowly over to the sink and wrapping a rag around her still bleeding hand. Taking another rag, she went back over to the table, to gather up the pieces of her mother's shattered china, wiping up the spilled tea as she went. Discarding the broken pieces into the garbage, she went about pouring her stepfather's drink—about double the amount any respectable person would drink. Carrying the glass, and, as an afterthought, the bottle, with her, she placed them both on the table next to the settee, and wordlessly left the room.

Hours later, when both the glass and the bottle were empty, and her stepfather's snores could be heard rumbling through the house from the living room, Annie made two sandwiches and wrapped them up in paper, placing them in her basket. When she arrived at the barn, she heard the soft strains of Erik's fiddle wafting through the air. It was the tune he had played earlier, that had made her so happy. But now, as she listened to the dulcet sounds, she feared the term _perfect loveliness_ could no longer be applied to her.

Tears in her eyes, she pushed open the barn door. Erik turned when she entered, and greeted her with a warm smile, but as he looked at her, at the raised, angry bruise that was still blackening over her cheek, Annie saw his eyes grow cold behind the mask.

All at once, he was up and at her side, his hands on her shoulders, demanding, "What's wrong?"

Meeting his gaze, and seeing the concern that was lodged there, Annie could only shake her head back and forth, closing her eyes as the tears poured out of them, loud sobs escaping her throat.

Drawing her over to the makeshift bed, Erik guided Annie to sit, taking the basket off of her arm, and placing it on the floor. When he sat down next to her, he gently took her hands in his and asked her, "Annie what happened?"

"I miss my mother, Erik," she told him through sobs. "I just miss my mother."

And just as if it were the most natural thing in the world to him, Erik held his arms out to her, and she tucked her head into his chest. And the boy who had never known a mother's comforting embrace wrapped his arms tightly around Annie and cradled her close to him as she cried.

 **AN: Awww, these poor lost souls.**sniff sniff** Please review, and let me know what you think. Thanks!**


	9. Chapter 9

CH 9

"We should leave this place, Annie," Erik said in no uncertain terms, as he paced back and forth in front of her, raking a hand through his hair, obviously concocting an elaborate plot in his mind that would take them far away from her stepfather's property. Hunched over with her elbows resting on her knees, she was sitting on the very same hay bale where Erik had waited for her on the night she'd brought him here. They'd been over his idea of running away a thousand times, it seemed, since she had stopped bawling like a baby in his arms. But still, he would not be swayed. "We will go and never come back. See how well his farm runs without you."

"Erik," she said once again, imploringly, hands held out before her to trying to get him to see reason. "I told you—we cannot go _anywhere_ right now. The gypsies are back. They were here today, looking for you. My stepfather managed to tell me that before he…" Annie took a deep breath to calm her nerves. For all of his ugliness, her stepfather had never actually raised a hand to her before, and she was feeling very shaken by the incident. "…hit me. It's not safe for us to be wandering around anywhere."

"It's not safe for _you_ to be in that house!" Erik's countered, turning toward her, anger still quite evident in his eyes.

"I _will_ be safe," Annie said, trying to brush off her own fears about returning to her stepfather's home. "I lost my temper and raised my voice to him tonight," she explained, forcing herself to be calm. "That is why he struck me. I shall have to be careful not to do that again."

"He should not have touched you, Annie," Erik said vehemently. "He should never have touched you."

"He has never touched me before," Annie assured him, knowing she had to calm Erik down before he did something crazy that would jeopardize his own safety. "And he won't again. I will simply keep my mouth shut and make sure only to tell him what he wants to hear."

"Did that work for your mother?" The words shot out of Erik's mouth before he realized what he was saying. Seeing her eyes suddenly flinch, wounded by his retort, Erik immediately regretted his words.

Coming over to where Annie sat, and kneeling down in front of her, he whispered, "I am sorry for my thoughtlessness, Annie, but you shouldn't have to live that way. We could run…"

"But _where_ would we run?" Annie asked, shaking her head. "And if the gypsies find you—find _me_ —what would they do to us? I _killed_ Sergiu, Erik…"

"They would _never_ know that," Erik interjected, his eyes suddenly hard and blazing.

"Do you think I'd let _you_ take the blame?" Annie asked him incredulously. "Regardless, if the gypsies found us we would be in for far worse than a slap. _Both_ of us. So, _please_ , let's just stay here where we're safe. For now," she added, taking his hand in hers and begging him to understand. "Only for now."

Erik did not like the idea of Annie living with a man as volatile as her stepfather seemed to be. He knew what it was like to be hit—to be pummeled to the point where he could barely move. Annie herself had said this man had beaten her mother into an early grave. Now that the lout had struck her, what would stop him from doing it again? Annie did not deserve to be hit. She did not deserve to ever have a hand laid on her in anger.

But Erik also knew that Annie had a point when it came to the gypsies. If they were captured… If the gypsies found out Annie had killed the master…

Shutting his eyes tightly, and shaking his head, Erik accepted defeat. Lifting his lids once more, Erik pulled his hand away from Annie's and grudgingly asked, "Are you going to eat your sandwich?"

"Are you going to eat yours?" she countered.

"I'm not very hungry at the moment."

"I'm not either, but I'll eat mine if you eat yours."

If possible, Erik's expression became even more disgruntled, as he reached into Annie's little basket and retrieved two wrapped packages. Handing her one and unwrapping his own, he lifted the sandwich to his mouth and tore off a bite. "You are infuriating, do you know that, Annie?" he muttered once he had swallowed.

"Yes, I know," Annie said, biting off a chunk of her own sandwich, a little smirk playing at her lips, despite the dire events of the evening.

"Why are you smiling?" Erik asked, glancing over at her, confused to see her lips turned up in a happy expression. "What _exactly_ do you have to be happy about right now?"

"You." She told him, plainly. At Erik's shocked look, Annie continued, "When I lost my mother, I also lost my only friend. She was all I had, and I thought I would be trapped for the rest of my life with that vile, abhorrent man she married for convenience's sake. I was sure I would never again have a friend. But now, even though my stepfather is still an appalling, disgusting drunkard who battered my mother and hurt me, I know I am _not_ alone. _You_ are my friend. And that is enough to make me smile."

Erik swallowed hard and looked deeply into the sweet dark eyes gazing back at him with such happiness. _He_ made her smile? His _friendship_ was enough to bring joy to her heart? How could that even be possible? Truly, he was at a loss.

Reaching a trembling hand out to hers, he felt his throat go dry. "Annie, you…" he began, with a shaky voice, "also make me…happy. I…" he coughed a little, wishing his heart would stop trying to crawl up into his throat. "…did not think I _could_ know friendship. I've never had a… friend…," he cleared his throat again, "before."

Annie smiled and squeezed his jittery fingers with her own confident ones. "Well, you will always have one now, Erik."

Erik gazed with awe into Annie's shining eyes for a moment, and marveled at her ability to pull herself back from the brink of sorrow. Less than an hour ago, she was a sobbing, shaking mess, pouring her heart out in the form of tears that drenched his shirt. And now, she sat in this barn—confidence and joy radiating from her being—bringing _him_ comfort in a moment of uncertainty.

"I thought I was the one growing in strength, Annie," Erik muttered in a hushed tone. "But you… you are _truly_ strong."

" _We_ are strong, Erik," Annie corrected him, once again squeezing the hand she was holding. " _Together_."

"Together," Erik whispered, a grin playing at his own lips.

" _Together_ ," Annie agreed with a smile of approval.

Erik and Annie finished the rest of their meal in comfortable quiet, letting their minds go blank for a little while. After the sandwiches were gone, Annie began to yawn.

"I'm tired, Erik," she stated, as she stretched out her arms. "I could fall asleep right here!"

"You _could_ , Annie," Erik blurted, before he realized what he was saying. "I… I mean… I have spent many nights on a floor. You could stay here and sleep on the bed—it's quite comfortable really. And at least I'd know you would be safe."

Annie's eyes narrowed, and she shook her head. "Erik if he were to wake and find me gone, he might come looking for me. If he discovered us here, then neither _one_ of us would be safe. He would not hesitate to turn you over to the gypsies for the reward money—and I would be beaten for hiding you."

"But Annie," Erik implored her.

Annie looked at him and saw the earnestness in his eyes. She cupped his cheek in her hand, and with a smile, she vowed, "I will be safe. I promise!"

"But how can you be sure?" he asked, still uncertain about this arrangement.

"Because I just promised you, silly," she smiled, again, as if her answer was the most obvious thing in the world. "And true friends always keep their promises."

* * *

Annie slept in her room that night and returned the next day, to prove to Erik that she was, indeed, safe. In the days to follow, they completed the planting of their winter garden, as autumn breezes nipped through the air, invigorating them despite the tiring work. The two friends spent every moment that they could together, with Annie desperately trying to avoid her stepfather as much as possible. She would cook the meals, and tend to the cottage, but the rest of the day, she spent on the farm, helping with whatever chores Erik had not done himself—which were few—and generally enjoying her friend's company in the beautiful autumn weather.

They were always careful to stay faraway from the house and the path—in case the gypsies came back to inquire again about Erik. Most of their time, they would spend down by the creek, where Erik would play his violin and Annie would dance. Of course, they would not be children if they did not engage in the occasional game of tag or hide and seek. Erik always won at both.

He was an excellent hider, absolutely delighting in sneaking up behind Annie, as she was searching for him—his feet managing to traverse lightly across the fallen leaves without ever making a sound. Leaning forward, ever so carefully, he would whisper "boo," right behind her left ear. He thrilled at her little jump and shriek as she turned to chase him, thus beginning a game of tag. Her speediest of sprints were no match for his long, graceful strides, but eventually, Erik would always slow down enough so she could catch him. When it was his turn to chase, he always gave her a head start. But then he also always caught up to her. Easily.

The games would end with the two friends collapsing, out of breath and laughing, on the leaf covered ground. It was on an afternoon such as this, as the two were lying on the ground, head to head, recovering from a vigorous game of chase, that Annie began to hum a little tune.

Erik listened quietly at first, turning his head to gaze at Annie, who was staring up at the sky absently twirling a finger through a lock of his hair, where it mingled with hers on the ground. But as the tune continued, and he couldn't place it, his curiosity got the best of him.

"What is that melody, Annie?" Erik asked, intrigued.

"Oh, just a little song that my mother always sang to me on my birthday," Annie told him, with a sigh, still gazing up at the clouds. "She would wake me with it in the morning. Then we would go downstairs, where Papa would be waiting, and there would be a cake, with candles, and a few little package all wrapped up just for me." Annie gave a sad smile to the sky. "Even after we moved here, she still held up the tradition—though the packages were fewer and the cakes smaller." After a pause, she added, still staring off into the heavens, "It's tomorrow, you know."

"Your birthday?" Erik asked, surprised by the revelation.

"Yes," Annie nodded. "And for the first time," she continued with a heavy sigh. "Mother won't be here."

Erik looked at his friend. Her brown eyes were now glistening, and Erik saw her blink once—twice—as if to hold back telltale tears.

"Annie," he whispered, as he reached out and grazed her cheek with his fingertips. "I'm sorry she's gone."

Annie turned at last to face her friend, and saw his eyes filled with genuine concern peeking out from behind his mask, as he continued to stroke her cheek. "I am too, Erik," she whispered back. "But I'm glad _you're_ here."

They gazed at each other a few more moments silently, their eyes speaking words that their mouths did not yet know how to say. Finally, Annie broke the silence, asking, "When is _your_ birthday, Erik?"

Erik's eyes clouded over with embarrassment. "I…" he began, with a self deprecating chuckle. "…I know not when my birthday is."

Annie looked at him with furrowed brow. "You don't _know_?"

"No…" Erik shook his head. "It was not a day my mother felt necessary to celebrate. She never mentioned my birthday, never mentioned my age. I only knew I was getting older as my clothes and my masks stopped fitting. When she would eventually get around to noticing those facts, she would provide me with new ones. But that was the extent of her marking my passage of years.

"The only time I ever did have a birthday celebration it was our neighbor's idea. She convinced mother to make a cake and have a special dinner. Mother did so grudgingly, and I was so happy. I think I was around five at that time, but I don't really know for sure. I do remember being very excited about the festivities. I had read stories about birthday celebrations, and I knew they usually involved singing and presents. But this one was different.

"Mother could barely stand to eat in my presence, since it required me to expose part of my mouth. There was no singing as she brought out the cake. Our neighbor tried, but mother forbade it. And when I was foolish enough to ask for a gift—a gift for which I had been wishing for a long time—my mother flew into hysterics, beating me and sending me back to my room. That was the end of my birthday celebrations."

"What was the gift?" Annie asked, horrified.

A sheepish grin covered Erik's face as he admitted, "I asked for two kisses. One for now, and one for the future—for a time when I felt that I needed it most. That way, I wouldn't have to bother her." Erik looked down in shame. "That's when she began to scream at me for being ungrateful and hideous, and every other unsavory thing you can imagine."

A few of the tears that had been playing at Annie's eyes trailed down her cheek as she heard her friend's story. "Oh Erik," she whispered, "I'm so sorry."

"It's alright," Erik said.

"No, it's _not_ alright." Annie responded forcefully. "You didn't deserve that. No little boy deserves that!"

"That's what I believed, Annie. That's what eventually led me to run away a few years later. I thought I was smart enough to make it on my own, but it was only a matter of weeks before I managed to be caught by the gypsies for stealing a loaf of bread. But I'm not like other children, Annie. I'm different," Erik tried to make her see. "My mother didn't see me as a little boy. All she ever saw was my face. That's all anybody ever saw."

"I see you, Erik." Annie told him, and this time, _her_ eyes were blazing.

"I know you do, Annie." Erik said back, with a smile.

" _And_ I see your face," Annie continued. "And I think you deserved happy birthdays just like every other child—with singing and presents and people to celebrate you."

"But that's just it, Annie," Erik shook his head sadly. "There are no people to celebrate you when they don't want you in the first place."

* * *

When Annie returned to the barn mid-morning the next day, her customary basket of goodies was nowhere to be found. "Erik," she called, as she peeked her head in the door, "I have a surprise for you! Come on!"

Erik rose from where he had been working on the song he had written with Annie in mind. "Where are we going?" he asked her, a bit confused.

"To the creek!" Annie answered. "Bring the violin!" And with that, she was off.

Annie ran all the way down to the creek. Erik ran after her, with his violin and …something else… in his hands. She managed to get to their usual spot first.

"Close your eyes!" she yelled out to him.

"Annie," he asked her in exasperation. "How am I going to get to you if my eyes are closed?"

"Stop stalling!" she answered, a twinkle in her eye, refusing to fall for his ruse. "You know the way. Now close your eyes!"

With an amused smirk, Erik did as he was told, and closed the small distance that still lay between him and Annie. When he had arrived, he asked, "Can I open my eyes now?"

"Yes," she told him, moving her body to the side. "Taa-daa!"

When Erik opened his eyes, he saw a picnic blanket laid out with a chocolate cake covered in candles set in the middle.

"Happy Birthday, Erik!" Annie declared joyfully.

"Happy Birthday?" he asked her, confused. "But it's not _my_ birthday, it's _yours_."

"No," Annie corrected him with a smile, as she gestured for him to sit down. "It's _ours_."

"But, Annie," Erik shook his head again, as he took a seat at the picnic blanket. "I told you, I don't _know_ my birthday."

"Then it _could_ be today." Annie said cheerfully. When Erik still looked at her with bewildered eyes, she added, "Erik, I know today is my birthday, but I have no one who will celebrate it with me."

When Erik opened his mouth to interrupt, Annie held up a finger to him and kept going. "We don't know when your birthday is, but I want to celebrate it. I want to celebrate _you_ ," she added, with a smile. "So, I thought we could _share_ a birthday."

Before Erik could say a word, Annie opened her mouth and began to sing,

 _For he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow_

 _For he's a jolly good fellow, which nobody can deny_

With a chuckle, Erik retorted, "Plenty of people have denied it, Annie!"

"Stop ruining your song, silly!" Annie giggled back, and continued singing,

 _Which nobody can deny, which nobody can deny_

 _For he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow_

 _For he's a jolly good fellow, which I could never deny!_

"Is that better?" she asked, having changed out the end of the song, so that he could not quarrel with it.

"It was wonderful," Erik responded. And then, putting two fingers to his chin, added, "Well, perhaps it was a _little_ flat…"

"Erik!" Annie cried in mock outrage. "You know I am a dancer, not a singer!"

"Annie," Erik laughed, his eyes softening with sincerity. "The song was perfect. The cake looks perfect. And you…were wrong."

"What?!" she demanded, never expecting his sentence to end that way.

"You _always_ had someone who planned to celebrate your birthday," he told her sweetly. With that he reached behind himself where he had lay the violin, and retrieved the…other… thing he had tucked out of sight. He held out before Annie a perfect red rose.

"Erik," Annie asked, as she stared at the flower in delight. It was very much like the first rose he had given her, only this one was in much better circumstances. "Where did you get this? We don't have roses on the farm."

"I took a walk in the woods early this morning," he told her.

"Erik!" Annie scolded him gently. "What if the gypsies had found you?"

"Annie," he rolled his eyes. "I am most certain that they have moved on by now. And it was _very_ early. I sincerely doubt they would have been awake yet, given how much they like to carouse in the evenings." He scooted a little closer to her. "Besides, I knew it was unlikely, but I had hoped there was a chance that I would find at least one late blooming rose," he smiled. "And I did. A perfectly lovely wild rose. For you."

Annie felt her heart flutter inside her chest as Erik placed the rose, from which he had carefully removed every thorn, behind her ear. "Happy Birthday, Annie," he whispered, as his fingers lazily arranged her ebony waves around his sweet scented present, causing Annie to ask herself, _had he always been so … handsome_? She knew it was a crazy thought, given the disfigurement that was even now obscured behind the little mask she had fashioned for him. But as he smiled at her and his fingers grazed her ear, she found that she could not breath, she could not speak, and she could not take her eyes off of him.

After a few too many seconds had passed, with the two friends simply gazing at one another, Annie cleared her throat and managed to muster a hoarse, "Thank you, Erik."

Erik smiled again, and responded, "Thank you too, Annie. Now, can we have some cake?"

With a chuckle, the intensity of the moment had passed, and the two friends indulged in sweets and laughter. Erik played for Annie—the lively songs to which he knew she loved to dance—and she did, flying and whirling across the leaf-covered earth. When she was tired, she asked, "Erik, will you play the song that you wrote the day we started the winter garden? The slower one? I've had enough of dancing. I'd like to just listen."

Swallowing hard, a bashful expression came over Erik's face, but he answered, "Of course," and began to play first sweet notes of the song. Annie closed her eyes and allowed the music to wash over her. The song had grown since last she had heard it. It was full and it was lush and Annie let her head fall back and felt herself enveloped by the melody. Unconsciously, she touched her fingers to the rose behind her ear—the velvet softness of its petals a perfect match for the luxury of the Erik's song.

When it was done, Annie looked to Erik and whispered, "Thank you. That was beautiful."

"Happy Birthday, Annie," Erik whispered back, with eyes that were full of some kind of emotion Annie could not name.

Standing up, Annie walked over to her friend. "Close your eyes," she demanded when she was close enough to grasp both of his hands.

"Do you have another cake?" Erik asked her, with a nervous giggle.

"No, just a present I'd forgotten to give you," she answered with a smile.

"I don't need anymore presents, Annie." Erik said, shakily. "You've already given me so much."

"Close your eyes, Erik," she commanded again.

Erik was powerless to resist her direct order, and his eyes fluttered closed.

Letting go of Erik's hands, Annie stood up on her tippy toes, because her friend was so impossibly tall. When she lifted Erik's mask, she immediately felt him stiffen, but before he could pull away, Annie placed her lips gently upon his cheek.

Annie heard his sharp intake of breath and saw his eyes shoot open. He stood there, trembling, eyes wide with astonishment, as he stared at her, questioningly.

"Happy birthday, Erik," Annie smiled at him warmly. "A kiss for now," she said, and inclining her head once more toward his other cheek—the one so cruelly marred by his deformity—she pressed her lips once again against his flesh. "And one for the future."

Erik still stared at her, his brain unable to form complete thoughts, and his mouth unable to express them, even if he had been able to think them. Two kisses. Two kisses that he had longed for his entire life—that had been denied him by his mother—given freely to him, just now, by the beautiful girl who was wearing his flower in her hair. His friend. His… _Annie_.

"Are you all right, Erik?" Annie asked, gently, noticing that he was a bit overcome.

Erik didn't speak, but merely nodded his head, although in truth he was not sure if he was all right at all.

"I have to go, Erik," she whispered. "I have chores to do—even on my birthday."

Erik nodded again, indicating that he understood.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she said, as she gave his hand a final squeeze and turned to go.

A final time, Erik nodded his head, and managed to force a little smile.

When Annie had gone, Erik walked in a daze back over to the creek. Kneeling down, he used tremulous fingers to untie his mask and he simply stared at his reflection in the water. A hideous face stared back at him—malformed, disfigured—the devil's child. His mother's shame, she called his face a curse. But as it gazed back at him from the creek's clear silvery glow, he saw his visage cursed no more. He could still feel the cool, tender pressure of Annie's perfect lips. Surely no lips so beautiful could ever touch a curse.

But her beauty was not just found in her kisses. Her laughter, too, and her smiles—and the kindness she showed him at every turn—these things were the true beauty that shone through in her eyes, directly from her soul.

The golden orbs staring back at him began to glisten, as tears of pure joy streamed down his cheeks. _Could it be_? Erik wondered to himself. _Could this possibly be how it felt to be loved?_

 **AN: Well, I'd certainly say so, Erik. I think you are definitely having your first experience with love. What do YOU think, readers?**


	10. Chapter 10

The waning autumn days continued on in much the same way for Erik and Annie—chores and games, with music and dreams mixed in along the way. Brisk breezes and golden rays of afternoon sunlight wove their bond ever closer, ever stronger, as they lay on the ground, staring lazily at the sky and sharing with each other their inmost thoughts and fears. Erik's shoulder length hair was forever curled around Annie's finger, and Annie's vibrant smile warmed any chill Erik felt from the cooling air. The friends flourished because of their togetherness, and it was an unquestionable fact that each could come to other with absolutely anything, no matter how difficult, and they would work things through.

So it was no surprise that it was to Erik that Annie came with news of her imminent demise. But still, when he saw her approach, her complexion pale, eyes staring straight ahead, without her customary smile, Erik's heart stopped.

"What's wrong, Annie?" Erik asked immediately, the broom he was using to sweep leaves away from the barn entrance, falling with a clatter to the ground.

Annie looked at him, her eyes two sepia pools of disbelief and fear. She parted her lips to answer him, but then, at a loss for words, closed her mouth again, shaking her head and turning her back to him. As Erik stared in confusion at her hunched form, he realized she was trembling.

"Annie," he asked, his voice becoming frantic. "Annie, did he hurt you? Did he strike you again?" When she still made no answer, and merely started to cry, Erik grabbed her upper arms, turning her about to face him. "Annie, tell me what has happened!" he demanded, jostling her a little, to break her silence. "Tell me right this instant!"

"Oww!" Annie howled, doubling over as if in pain.

Erik immediately let go of her arms, scanning her form desperately for any sign of injury, but finding none. "Annie," he asked, trying to make his voice calm, but merely sounding just short of hysterical. "Are you hurt? Are you ill?"

"I am dying Erik!" Annie shouted at him, eyes blazing with anger at being treated so roughly. "I'm _dying._ " With desperate sobs racking her chest, she slumped slowly to the ground, wrapping her arms around her knees, and burying her head in them.

Erik stood for a moment, stunned, staring at his sobbing friend. He felt as if _he_ was going to be ill at the thought of losing the friend who had been the only light in his otherwise dismal life. _Annie dying?_ Certainly this could not truly be happening.

Raking his fingers through his hair, Erik knelt down next to his distraught friend. "Annie," Erik touched her back, hoping she would raise her head and look at him. "Annie, please, I don't understand. Why do you say you're dying?"

Annie finally lifted her head from her knees and looked in his direction. "This morning, I awoke in a bed full of blood! _My_ blood! And I'm still bleeding," she blurted, her eyes beginning to glass over again in fear. "And my stomach _hurts_ , Erik," she continued, hugging her knees more tightly around her abdomen. "There's so much pain. It's as if some small animal managed to crawl its way inside my guts, proceeded to tie them into a knot, and is, as we speak, trying to claw its way out." After a brief pause, she added, "Perhaps that is where the blood is coming from."

Erik stared at his friend, wide eyed for a moment, to ascertain if she was serious. As she sat there, arms curled around her midsection, upper torso slightly hunched forward, lips plumped into the biggest pout he'd ever seen, he realized that she was. And filled with the greatest sense of relief he had ever known, Erik could not help but burst out into laughter.

Annie glared at her friend, who was, as she saw it, rejoicing in her misery. "What on earth are you laughing about?" she demanded. "Does it bring you so much glee to know that I will soon be no more?"

"Annie," he said, trying to get his laughter under control. "You are not dying."

"Of course I am dying. I am bleeding uncontrollably, and my insides feel like they are trying to get _out_! How else can you explain it?"

"Annie," he said to her, in a calmer tone of voice, not able to wipe the smile entirely off his face. His entire being was filled with joy that he would not soon be without his only friend. "Have you never learned about your menses?"

Annie looked at him with screwed up eyes and a scowl on her face. "My _what_?"

"Your menses," Erik repeated, beginning to feel sympathy for his obviously unsuspecting friend. "Your…monthly discharge. Your cycle."

"My…" she trailed off, a spark of recognition beginning to dawn in her eyes, "…cycle?"

"Yes, Annie," Erik nodded gently. "Your cycle. I…" he cleared his throat, feeling slightly self-conscious, "saw a lot of things at the gypsy camp. The women there were not at all shy about discussing their personal matters with each other and would often do so where I could easily

overhear. I suppose they thought me not even human enough to understand what they were discussing. Regardless, I gathered that a…cycle…is how a female body prepares itself for…" he paused again, swallowing hard, "carrying a child. It involves the discharge of blood, and often a great deal of discomfort."

"Oh…yes," Annie nodded, suddenly looking away from him and down at the ground. Her _cycle_. "I do remember mother needing certain…supplies…during a specific time every month." _And mother had lived through those episodes_ , Annie thought to herself, suddenly feeling a surge of hope. If her mother had lived, perhaps _she_ would survive after all.

But in the next second, her hope was once again dashed, as a feeling of embarrassment took root in her chest. "But I didn't know…I didn't know it would happen to _me,_ " Annie admitted, crimson tinting her cheeks. "—At least not _yet_." Annie swallowed down a sob, and Erik, feeling horribly guilty for laughing at her moments ago, put his arm around her shoulders in the hope of bringing her comfort. "There's so much my mother didn't have a chance to tell me,"

"I'm sorry Annie," Erik whispered, as she turned her head toward him and began to sniffle a little into his shirt. "I should not have laughed."

"No!" she agreed, readily. "You should _not_ have!"

"I won't do it again," he promised.

"You better not!" she warned, tears now dampening his chest.

Erik held her for a few more moments, as she continued to cry. When his shirtfront was nearly completely soaked, he finally asked her, "Annie, why are you crying? I know this cycle thing all sounds rather distressing,"— _disgusting_ , was his true opinion—"but I would have thought that you'd be happy to know you're not dying." When she made no response, he squeezed her shoulders, and expressed his own feelings on the situation, " _I_ certainly am."

"I am happy," she blubbered, the tears coming a little harder.

In exasperation, Erik said, "Well, you don't _look_ happy, Annie. You look decidedly despondent."

"I _am_ ," she cried even harder. "There's just so much I don't know. And I miss my mother."

Erik pulled her closer, now putting both his arms around her. After a moment, he murmured, "I am sorry your mother is not here, but _I'm_ here. And we will get through it together, Annie. You're not alone."

Glancing up into her friend's sincere eyes, Annie felt such gratitude that she had him to turn to. Reaching up, she slipped her finger beneath his mask to stroke his cheek, whispering, "I know." They gazed at each other a few moments in silence, their eyes communicating so much without words.

Suddenly, her eyes grew wide, and she blurted, "Oh God, does this mean it is not a one-time thing…I have to go through this _every month_?"

Erik rolled his eyes and patted her back, realizing, at that moment, that he too would have to go through this _with_ Annie every month. "There, there," he told her, trying to sooth her volatile emotions. "It will all be alright in just a few days."

"Until it starts all over again!" she sighed, a bit of annoyance creeping back into her mood.

"Well, yes," Erik agreed, calmly. "But at least you will have a nice break in between."

"Says you!" She began to pout again, as a searing cramp coursed once more through her abdomen, causing her to wince.

Erik was at a loss. He had observed the gypsy girls go through these same pains and frustrations so many times, but he truly hated seeing the pain and distress it caused his friend. He felt helpless and unable to do anything to soothe her. Quietly, he tried the only thing he could think

of. He began to hum the melody he had written for her on the violin. As he hummed, and his rich, lilting tones reached Annie's ears, he could feel her begin to relax—the tension melting out of her shoulders. Slowly, she eased herself down, so that she could lay with her head on his lap, eyes closed, head inclined toward the clouds.

Erik watched his friend as he continued to hum, and he could not help himself from wiping the stray tears away from her face, and brushing the hair back from her forehead. Even though her eyes were puffy from crying and her cheeks were blotched with patches of red, she was still so very beautiful to him. He marveled at how soft her skin felt beneath his fingertips—like the finest of silk—framed by a billowing veil of gossamer, black as night. Without realizing it, Erik's tune trailed off, as he sat entranced by her loveliness.

After a time of silence, Annie's eyelids fluttered open, and she caught his gaze with her own. "Thank you, Erik," she whispered, looking up with wonder into her friend's glowing golden eyes. "You always know just how to calm me."

"Are you feeling better?" he asked her gently, still stroking the hair at her forehead, barely aware that he was doing it.

"Yes," she said, with a little smile. "Much."

"Good," he whispered, smiling back sweetly.

Annie allowed her eyelids to drift closed again, enjoying the calm that had washed over her as a result of Erik's reassuring song and touch.

"Erik?" Annie asked absently, as his fingers continued to play upon her hair. "Do you think of me as a woman now?"

"Mmmmm," Erik purred until he realized just exactly what she had asked. "Wait a minute Annie," he said harshly, suddenly snapping out of the trance the afternoon had put on both of them. "What?"

Annie opened one eye and peered up at her friend, who suddenly looked a bit uncomfortable. "Do you think of me as a woman, now?"

"Why would you ask me such a question?" Erik asked, nervous for a moment that she had read his thoughts about her loveliness, and worried that she might be upset with him.

"I just…" Feeling her friend's discomfort, Annie put her arms out to right herself so that she was in a seated position. "I mean… I was a little late this morning getting down to the kitchen. I was a bit… shocked …to find the bed full of blood. My first thought was to wash it out of the sheets, so I stripped the bedding and carried the linens downstairs, with the intention of taking them down to the creek."

"Yes, and," Erik prodded, trying to get Annie to move her story along.

"Well, I ran into my stepfather."

Erik's eyes narrowed and his teeth clenched. "And?"

"He hadn't seen me yet, so I tried to turn and deposit the sheets back upstairs. But he called out to me that it was about time I got downstairs to make his breakfast. He turned to look in my direction, and noticed that I was trying to sneak something back upstairs.

"He demanded to know what I was hiding, and though I tried to convince him it was nothing of consequence, eventually I had to show him the sheets. He just stared at the…bloodstains for a long time," Annie paused, her face coloring in embarrassment, at the thought of that man seeing the evidence of what she now recognized as her cycle. "And then he leered at me and said, 'You're a woman now, eh?' And he just laughed and sat down at the table, waiting for me to bring him his food. I had no idea, at the time, what he meant by that, since I had already come to the conclusion that I was dying." She looked down, mortified now by what seemed like such a foolish assumption.

Erik felt his jaw tighten even more as he listened to Annie's story, recalling all too well how the elders of the gypsy camp would officially declare a girl to be a woman once her cycle began. Physically able to have babies, and therefore, capable of fulfilling their duties as a wives, these girls were soon after given in marriage to the young eligible gypsy men—and they rarely had any choice in the matter. "What happened next?" Erik bit out his words through clenched teeth, worried that Annie's stepfather had been thinking in a similar fashion.

"Well," Annie said, a bit perplexed at how disquieted he seemed. "Nothing really. I made his breakfast and he grumbled his way through it. Didn't really say another word to me. But I'm not sure I want to be a woman, Erik," she added hastily.

"Relax, Annie!" Erik responded, offhandedly, still a bit distracted by her stepfather's remarks. "Most days I think you're more monkey than girl. You are far from being a woman."

It wasn't until Annie glared at him, outraged by his remark, and threw a handful of leaves at his face, that Erik realized exactly what he had said. With a sigh, he amended his words.

"I didn't mean that the way it sounded, Annie," he said, facing her annoyance. "It's just that I _don't_ think of you as being a woman— _or_ a girl, most times. I think of you simply as being my friend. My…" he searched for a minute for the perfect way to complete his thought. " _Annie_ ," he added sincerely.

Annie looked into his honest eyes. She felt tears welling up in her own again, at the realization that _Erik's Annie_ was exactly what she most wanted to be.

"Oh, Annie," Erik began, warily, seeing her face contort and her eyes begin to glisten. "Are you going to cry again?"

Annie almost knocked Erik over as she flung her arms around him and declared, "I don't want to be a woman, Erik. Women have husbands, and husbands do nothing but use them, and hurt them, and make them cry."

Erik hugged his friend back, wondering how their conversation had managed to make this latest sharp turn. Annie's mind was certainly flighty today. "Your papa wasn't like that, Annie," Erik reminded her, in an attempt to calm her down once more. "Your papa never hurt your mother."

" _He_ hurt her most of all," Annie responded. "By leaving her."

"Annie," Erik tried again to talk some reason into his exasperating friend. "It's not like he wanted to leave her. He _died_."

"I know," Annie sobbed. "But he had promised to stay forever. Husbands are supposed to stay forever. But only the bad ones do. The good ones go too soon."

Erik didn't know what to say, so he only hugged his distressed friend more tightly. "It's all right, Annie," he whispered. "Everything's going to be all right."

"I don't want to be a woman, Erik," she cried once again. "I only want to be your Annie."

"I promise," Erik vowed, as he felt her grip on his neck grow stronger and he held her even closer. "You will always, _always_ , be my Annie."

Annie tucked her head into the crook of his neck once again, and Erik simply held her, resting his chin upon her hair. After a few tender moments of this quieting embrace, Annie pulled slightly back, so she could look in Erik's eyes.

"Friends are forever, Erik," she told him solemnly.

"We are, Annie," Erik promised her, smiling. "We are." And he tucked her head back into its favorite resting place, and held her for a little while more.

* * *

"This is as far as you should come, Erik," Annie said, turning to him and holding her hand out before her. Since that day a week ago when she had started her first menses, Erik had taken to walking her at least partway back to the cottage. She did not understand why he was suddenly acting so protective of her as if some new, unknown threat had presented itself, simply because she had begun her monthly cycle. In truth, however, Annie enjoyed having those few extra minutes of his company—especially since, for the past few evenings, her stepfather had not been drinking so much that he would pass out at night, making a return to the barn after dinner nigh impossible. So, she did not complain too much about Erik's extra coddling—just enough to make her point that it was entirely unnecessary, even if it was greatly desired. "Any closer, and he might see you."

"So what if he does?" Erik asked, obviously in a petulant mood.

With an exasperated sigh, Annie answered, "You know what would happen, Erik! He would turn you in to the gypsies and I would be harshly punished. It is not safe…"

"You will never be safe," Erik interjected, cutting her off, "as long as you live with a man who thinks nothing of beating women and children." When Annie merely rolled her eyes at him, he added, imploringly, "We could still run, Annie."

"Erik," Annie narrowed her eyes at his suggestion. "Why do you keep saying that?  
He has not touched me since that day he struck me. Why are you so worried?"

"I do not trust him." Erik said firmly, folding his arms across his chest. "Why is he suddenly drinking less?"

"I don't know, Erik. And I don't trust him either," Annie responded. "But trust _me_. I will not do or say anything to provoke his anger."

"What happens, Annie," Erik asked her in all seriousness, staring pointedly into her eyes, "when the day comes that you do nothing to provoke him, and he is _still_ angry?"

Annie felt a chill run up her spine knowing in her heart that such a day may in fact arrive. She may not do anything to purposely rouse his anger, but then again, neither had her mother.

"Erik," she asked, looking away from him, her throat feeling dry and raw, "where would we run?"

"We do not need a _place_ to run, Annie," Erik said, showing a bit of Annie's own resolve. "We have _each other_ , and we will find a way. _Together_."

"Together," she looked up at him, nodding a bit uncertainly.

Feeling a bit surprised that Annie finally seemed to be taking his words seriously, Erik pushed on. "Are you saying…."

"I'm saying," Annie conceded, "that we can talk about leaving."

Erik's exhaled loudly and ran his fingers through his hair. "We must make plans."

" _Tomorrow_ ," Annie insisted. "Right now, I must get home to make my stepfather's dinner. He will be horribly cross with me if I am late."

As Annie turned to continue on toward the house, Erik reached out and grasped her hand. With a squeeze, he repeated, "Tomorrow, Annie. We begin."

Still not sure this was the right thing to do, Annie nodded again solemnly and whispered, "Goodnight."

Erik watched as Annie continued the short distance to the farmhouse on her own. When she was just about to turn out of sight, she paused and looked back at him, giving a little wave, and gesturing for him to go back to the barn. Once she was out of view, Erik muttered to himself, " _We_ begin tomorrow, Annie, but _I_ will be watching over you tonight." And carefully, sticking to the shadows, Erik followed the path that Annie trod.

AN: awww, Annie has a guardian angel. Please let me know what you think.


	11. Chapter 11

**WARNING: A brutal attack is depicted in this chapter. I will bold it, in case some of you would rather not read it.**

"Have you had enough?" Annie asked the man sitting across from her as she rose from the table to clear the dinner dishes. When he grunted affirmatively, she took his plate, along with his eating utensils, and carried them, with her own dishes over to the sink for washing. As she poured some warmed water into the dish basin, she called over her shoulder, "Shall I pour you a glass of brandy?"

"No," came the gruff reply. "I've had enough for the night."  
"Oh," she answered, sighing inwardly. She plunged her hands into the soapy water and dragged a rag along one of the plates, wishing that she could somehow convince him to take a drink. The evenings at home under his watchful gaze were getting to be unbearable, and she wanted nothing more than to run back to the barn and ease Erik's troubled mind. Unless her stepfather indulged a bit more, however, it was not to be.

"The first frost'll be here soon," he commented, as she continued to wash the dishes.

"The garden's all ready," she informed him. "It should yield enough vegetables to keep us well stocked through the winter."

They fell back into silence—a fact for which Annie was thankful. She detested talking to her stepfather, and greatly enjoyed his times of stupor, when she could pretend he didn't exist. But this past week, those times had been too few. _How_ could she convince him to take a drink?

Wood creaked as his chair was pushed out from the table. "It'll be a year soon, since your mother left us."

Annie looked down at the soapy water and took a deep, bracing breath. It was comments such as this that truly made her long for the days her stepfather would pass out drunk on the settee. "Yes," she answered curtly. "It will be."

"That's a long time," he grunted, as he pulled himself into a standing position. "To be without a woman in the house." Annie heard his footsteps walking closer to the sink until he was standing right behind her, the barrel of his chest grazing her back. "Have I ever told you, girl," her stepfather said, his breath hot on her neck, "that you have done a fine job of taking on your mother's duties?"

Annie's skin crawled at his nearness, and she took a deep breath to try and calm her nerves. "You've mentioned it," she answered coolly, remembering his callous claim only months ago that he barely noticed her mother was gone.

"You've grown to look so much like her too," he commented, reaching his arm over her shoulder to and trailing a finger down her cheek.

Annie flinched when she felt his meaty fingers on her face. "Don't _touch_ me!" she cringed, recoiling from his caress, her heart racing.

Her stepfather gave out a sickly snicker. "You've got your mother's spirit about you too, Antoinette Morelle." Pushing even closer, and dragging his hands roughly, down her sides, groping the buds of her breasts as he did so, he added, "I always did like the way she tried to fight me off."

"My name is _not_ Morelle!" Annie spat, rounding on him, forgetting, in her outrage, all about the promise she made to Erik that she would try to keep the peace. Pressing herself flush up against the sink, to effect some distance between them, she added, "I am Antoinette Laramie as I will forever be! You would do well to remember that, you swine! Just as you would have done well to remember that my _mother_ was a lady!"

An angry scarlet colored the larger man's face as he snarled, "Your mother was a bitch!" Grabbing a fistful of her hair, he added, "And I can see that you are too! Come, Antoinette _Laramie_ ," he said in a mocking tone, as he dragged her away from the sink by her hair. "It is time for you to take on another of your mother's duties. After all, you _are_ the woman of the house now!"

Annie's arm swung forward with the knife she had snatched from the soapy dish basin.

She made contact with his arm, but the slick weapon slipped from her grasp after making only the smallest of cuts. Still, she had drawn blood, and when her stepfather saw the crimson liquid spreading out across his sleeve, his nostrils flared and fury flashed in his eyes. With a violent yank, he threw her to the floor, causing her head to crack against the wooden boards. Annie tried to push herself up, but could barely think past the stars before her eyes. **"You little tramp!" he growled, looming over her, as he removed his belt and quickly unfastened his pants, shoving them off of his hips and revealing with gruesome certainty his foul intentions. "I was going to try to be gentle with you, but now that you've hurt me, I'm going to make sure I hurt** ** _you_** **real good!"**

 **As he lowered himself onto her, and shoved her skirts up to her waist, Annie screamed with all her might. He slapped her face hard to silence her cries, and proceeded to tear open her bodice, clawing roughly at her breasts. All she could see, was her mother brutalized day after day, still imploring her to** ** _be good, Annie_** **. All she could hear, was Erik's desperate refrain of,** ** _we could run, Annie_** **. All she could feel was her stepfather's corpulent form crushing the breath from her lungs as he rutted against her—his feculent fingers bruising the flesh of her thighs, forcibly prying her legs apart.** _ **This isn't good, Mother. This isn't good. … Erik, I'm sorry. I can't run.**_

In an instant, the porcine grunts of her stepfather's attempted despoilment were replaced with a crackling exertion to breathe, as his body was yanked away by skeletal fingers that gnarled around his neck. After a moment's struggle, Annie heard a sickly snap, and her stepfather's corpse slumped to the floor.

And as she cowered into a ball where she lay, trembling and shaking, she murmured to herself over and over again, _I tried to be good, mother… really, I tried._

* * *

Erik dispatched Annie's revolting stepfather and stepped back as the sniveling carcass slid in a heap to the floor. He did not have time to reflect on the fact that he had taken a life. He had no moments to spare for the terror that had threatened to explode in his chest as he'd fumbled frantically with the lock, or the hatred that had immediately taken hold of him when he'd witnessed the brutal mongrel's repugnant form attempting to violate his dear friend. Erik had no time to contemplate the loud pop that had ended the worthless miscreant's struggle, causing him to immediately fall slack in Erik's grasp. As he turned away from his victim's loathly remains, he saw Annie huddled into a ball, keening on the floor. And Annie was all that mattered.

" _I tried to be good, Mother."_ The words spilled out from her mouth again and again, as she rocked back and forth, back and forth _. "I tried. I tried."_

"Annie," Erik called her name, in an instant closing the distance between them.

" _I can't run. I can't run,_ " she continued to moan, all the while huddled into herself, hands hiding her head. " _I tried, Mother. I tried._ "

"Annie," Erik beseeched her again, reaching out toward her slowly.

" _Please forgive me…_ " Annie's whimpers broke off into a blood-curdling scream as Erik lightly touched her arm. She scrambled away from him on all fours, and pressed herself up against the wall, holding her hands up defensively as if to prevent him from coming closer.

" _Annie_?" Erik practically sobbed in confusion, shocked that she would pull away from his touch.

"Don't touch me!" Annie shrieked in terror, appearing as if she could bolt at any moment. "Please don't touch me."

Absolute agony tore at his soul as he heard the words leave Annie's lips. He understood that though Annie looked in his direction, her eyes did not see him. Rationally, he knew that her fear and revulsion were directed toward her stepfather, and merely misplaced upon his fingertips. But still—to see Annie, shrink away from him, and beg him not to touch her… it was like a dagger to his heart.

Erik wanted to run. He wanted to hide from the anguish her words awakened—from the echoes of denunciation, abandonment, and neglect. But he knew that Annie needed him, so swallowing his own torment, Erik raised his hands cautiously before him, in what he hoped would be a calming gesture. "Annie, don't you see? It's me —" he implored her, patting his chest with his hand. "It's Erik."

Annie continued to tremble, but her eyes narrowed slightly, in some manner of recognition. "Erik?" she asked, blinking against the cloud of confusion in her head.

"Yes, Annie," he nodded slowly. " _Your_ Erik. I'm right here. And your stepfather is gone, Annie. Dead."

 _Dead?_ Annie mouthed, soundlessly, her eyes widening. She glanced past Erik to the body on the kitchen floor, and her mouth fell agape.

"That's right, Annie," Erik worked hard to keep his voice calm and soothing, as he saw her hand cover her mouth, tears springing to her eyes. "He can't hurt you anymore."

Annie's brow furrowed and her breathing came in harsh gasps. "I…I tried to be good," the words came tumbling out of her mouth. "Really, I _t…tried_ to be good."

Erik nodded his head again, his heart breaking to see Annie so out of sorts. "You are good, Annie," he informed her in a reassuring tone. "You are _so_ _good_."

"No, I'm _not_ ," she declared in a thick voice, shaking her head. "I'm not. You warned me, Erik. You warned me to run…and I… I _didn't_ run. And…he _touched_ me, Erik. I didn't get away."

"Listen to me, Annie," Erik leaned into her and tried to take her hand, but though she did not scream, she still flinched, yanking it away. Taking a deep breath and pushing down the sting in his chest, he continued. "You _are_ good. _You_ did nothing wrong. It was him—that vile, disgusting, beast of a man. _He_ wasn't good, Annie. He tried to hurt you."

"And now he's dead," Annie half asked, half declared.

"Yes," Erik nodded, "He's dead. And he can never hurt you again."

Annie looked from Erik to her stepfather's lifeless form, then back to Erik. "I'm not good, Erik," she told him solemnly, shaking her head. "I'm _glad_ he's dead."

Erik took in his friend's somber expression, her eyes, which had always been so full of spirit, now flat, and devoid of life. Bruises blackened her cheek, and dried blood stained her usually upturned lips. Her beautiful, raven tresses were matted heavily against her forehead, and Erik's fingers ached to smooth them back—just as his arms ached to gather her close and hold her until this entire nightmare passed, and he could feel the trembling give over to a quiet calm. His Annie. His sweet, beautiful Annie. But, no. Erik dared not touch her.

"I am glad he's dead too, Annie," Erik said resolutely, wishing he had pressed the issue of leaving harder than he had. "But now we must run."

Annie looked at him in terror. "Run?"

"Yes, Annie." Erik told her desperately trying to make her see reason. "We have no choice in the matter. He is dead, and eventually, someone will come looking. We cannot be here when they do."

That familiar panic and uncertainty flashed in Annie's expression once more. "You go, Erik, but I _can't_ run. I'm sorry. I…I have to take care of the farm. Mama said…mama said…" she panted, her eyes seeing the horror of the attack playing out once again before her. "Oh God, Erik, _I can't run_."

Erik pleaded with her, "If you don't want to leave, I'll stay here with you. But I will not leave you here alone. I _cannot_. True friends don't just leave."

Erik could practically see the tiny bit of courage begin to grow in Annie's heart as she heard her own words coming back to her. Still, she expressed her doubts. "But Erik, where would we run?"

Erik did not hesitate, seeing that his words were beginning to break through her defenses. "We will go somewhere where no one will know us. No one will find us."

"But how?" she asked desperately. "We have nothing—nowhere to go."

"We have each other! That is all we need. We will _find_ a place, _together_ , Annie," Erik shot back, trying to give her confidence. "We will take to the woods…"

"How well did that work for you the last time you ran away?" Annie remarked, knowing how quickly the gypsies had captured Erik after he had departed his mother's house.

"This time is _different_ ," he insisted, his eyes blazing.

"How?" she demanded, not seeing much of a change in his plan.

"You will be _with_ me, Annie," he told her with stony determination. "And I will _never_ let anyone or anything hurt you ever again."

As Erik swore his pledge into Annie's softening eyes, he knew that his words were absolutely true. The gypsies had taken him before. He had been beaten and tormented, and subjugated into service as a sideshow attraction. All of that, he had not been able to stop. But that was before Annie.

Erik hated himself for what had happened to her. He should have forced her to leave the farm—carrying her off in the night, if that was what had been required. He should have torn that door off its hinges when it refused to open for him, rather than impatiently fighting with the lock. He should have done something to prevent the vile attack, just like he should have saved her from the Sergiu's cruelty, when he'd slammed her head into a pole.

But Erik would be damned if he would ever let something like this happen again. He would take Annie away from here and protect her from all who would do her harm. He would defend her against dangers, and find her some kind of shelter that she could call a home. He had killed for Annie, and he would gladly die for her. She would be safe with him, from all harm—to that he would swear.

Erik could see the fog slowly lift from his friend's eyes as she searched his face for any sign of uncertainty. Finally, in a firm voice, she responded, "Let's go."

Erik smiled, when Annie finally came around, and quickly got to his feet, holding a hand out, to offer assistance. Annie stared for a long moment at the palm stretched out before her, finally closing her eyes and shaking her head. "I can do it," she murmured, no longer able to meet Erik's eyes, as she clutched her shredded bodice together with unsteady fingers, and pulled herself to her feet. "I should change," she muttered heading for the stairs.

And as he watched her go, the smile faded from Erik's face.

* * *

When Annie emerged from her room, with a freshly washed face, somewhat brushed hair, and wearing a new dress, she and Erik went about the cottage packing as many supplies as they could comfortably carry on their journey—avoiding the cadaverous form of her stepfather as much as possible. Erik had tossed a blanket over the corpse, to shield Annie's eyes from the grotesque sight, but they were both well aware of what lay beneath the covering.

They discovered a stockpile of alcohol money and added it, along with some dried foods and extra clothing into packs that they hefted onto their backs before quickly running back to the barn to retrieve Erik's meager belongings. As he was gathering his supplies, Annie glanced over to his bed. Lying there was little Ami, who had had been in Erik's care since the night they had escaped the gypsy camp.

Erik finished stuffing his notebook into his pack, and glanced over to where Annie sat staring. He followed her gaze, and when he saw where her eyes fell, he felt a pang in his chest. "I was not going to leave without him, Annie," he assured her, knowing the monkey's significance. "I was going to pack him last."

Annie simply nodded, and continued to stare at the stalwart creature, a few tears moistening her eyes. Cautious not to brush against her in any way, Erik slipped past, and lifted the stuffed animal from the bed. He had been a good friend, especially on those sleepless nights, when Erik would lie awake at night, increasingly worried for Annie's safety. Gazing at her now, Erik held the monkey toward her. "I think you should have him back," he whispered. "It looks as if you could use your old friend."

Reaching out her fingers, careful not to make contact with Erik's in any way, Annie took the monkey into her grasp. Squeezing his softness in her hand, and stroking the little silver cymbals, Annie stared long at his little button eyes. She recalled how her father had promised her that the sentinel monkey would guard her against bad dreams and monsters—that he would chase away the nightmares and always keep her safe.

"I think he's too late, Erik," Annie muttered, as the teardrops began to fall. "It's too late."

 **AN: Well, as** **s** **tellarator** **predicted, Annie did indeed need her guardian angel. Just in case it was not clear, he did, indeed, save her from the attack becoming a reality. However, there was obviously some damage down to her soul. Do you think Erik will be able to help her heal?**


	12. Chapter 12

Darkness surrounded them as they began their flight from the farm, the new moon's paltry light barely shining its way through the growth of trees. Erik's eyes were acclimated to seeing in the dark, since it had been thrust upon him his entire life, allowing him to expertly avoid treacherous roots and branches that littered the forest floor before them. Annie, however, had no such luck.

"Annie!" Erik called out, naturally reaching out in her direction when he saw her falter once again. Her natural dancer's grace had abandoned her with the lack of light, and Annie tripped and stumbled time and again as they slowly made their way forward, causing muttered swears and bits of mild profanity to spill from her lips.

Arms stretched out before her, to aid in her balance, she refused his help, muttering an annoyed, "I'm alright, Erik," as she trudged ahead on her own, still managing to slip on each patch of leaves and falter over every dip in the ground. As Erik watched her struggle in the blackness, he wanted so much to reach out and help her.

He recalled how Annie described the trek to the farm on the night she freed him from the gypsies. She had practically carried him, she said, bearing his weight on her shoulders, wrapping her arm around his waist for support. Once in the barn, she'd washed out the wounds on his face and chest, to prevent infection—even going so far as removing his mask before leaving him to rest in the makeshift bed. She had cared for Erik and seen to his every need. But tonight, in this similar situation, Erik was helpless.

He raked his hands through his hair, exhaling a deep breath. He would gladly have guided her across the uneven terrain, with an arm around her shoulders. It would have been nothing, even, to lift her and carry her in his arms, if the way before them became too rough. Despite her insistence to the contrary, she was such a _small_ thing; she would be no burden at all. But she would not permit him to touch her—not even allowing his fingertips to brush lightly against hers. She had made a great point of keeping physical distance between them.

Erik knew that Annie was spooked and terrified because of what her stepfather had done to her. It truly had nothing to do with him. _And yet_ , he thought to himself, _I am the one she is pushing away_.

Erik had spent his life recoiling from touch, bracing himself for the worst whenever someone would look his way. He had been taught, from a very early age, that screams, insults, and abusive blows were all that he could expect. It was what he deserved, his mother told him, because of his hideous face. Still, a little boy could not help but yearn for kindness that never came. Yet, with his hopes dashed, time and again, he had come only to dread physical contact, knowing instinctively, that it would bring nothing but pain.

And yet, Annie had shown him new hope. She'd taught him the wonder of a hand that reached out in friendship. She'd shown him the comfort of an arm around his shoulder, the warmth of a friendly embrace. She had even bestowed on him the most treasured gift that his mother had felt unable to give—two sweet kisses on the cheek. The way that had made his spirit soar still escaped explanation, but for the first time in his life, at that moment, he'd thought it might be possible for someone to love him.

But now she begged him not to touch her—she flinched away from his hand, and denied his embrace. Erik was finding that it was not the worst thing in the world to have never known human tenderness; rather it was worse by far, to have that treasured affection stolen away.

A sharp cry pulled Erik from his dark thoughts. Annie was standing, doubled over, one arm extended against a tree to hold herself up. "Ow!" she winced, leaning over with her other hand to gingerly touch her right ankle, which was lifted slightly off the ground.

"Annie," Erik asked, immediately on his knees before her, intending to examine the ankle. "Are you all right?"

"I am fine, Erik," she shot back, pulling away from him, the pain in her ankle obviously not great enough to cause her to accept his help.

Trying to ignore the sting in his chest as she once again pushed him away, Erik rose to a standing position, and looking directly at her, responded, "You are not fine, Annie."

In response, Annie just looked down, unable to meet his eyes.

Attempting to put her weight on her injured ankle, Annie once more grimaced in pain, and nodding her head in defeat, finally admitted, "No, I suppose I am not."

Seeing how lost and dejected Annie seemed in that moment, Erik scolded himself for getting lost in his own feelings. Annie had suffered a brutal attack. How _he_ felt held no consequence. His focus had to be on Annie, and giving her what she needed—however difficult he was finding that to do.

He surveyed the wooded area around them. They were not as far away from the cottage as he had hoped they'd get, but with Annie's ankle in the state that it was, they were not going to be able to go any farther. "Well, I suppose this will do for the night," Erik commented, as he took the pack from his back and set it down on the ground.

"Are you sure it's safe?" Annie asked, concerned as well that they had not gotten far enough away.

"Annie," Erik answered, gesturing to her ankle. "You can't even put any weight on that ankle. You're not going to be able to go much farther. We might as well rest for the night, and hope that you're feeling better in the morning. Besides," he added, knowing how nervous she was feeling. "I will make sure you're safe."

Annie looked at her friend's kind eyes and knew that he was right. Gingerly, Annie lowered herself to the ground.

Erik resisted the urges to help her and to offer to check on her injury. He was certain the ankle probably needed to be wrapped, but he knew what she needed right now, more than anything, was some space. He did help her remove her pack—making certain that he only touched the fabric and not her person in any way. And then he sat down beside her, yet still far enough away not to make Annie feel uncomfortable.

"You should eat something, Annie," Erik informed her, opening the pack and rummaging through to find some of the dried goods they'd brought along."

"I'm not hungry," she answered, staring off into the blackness.

"Still," Erik insisted, handing her over a pouch of dried fruit and nuts. "You _should_."

Annie accepted the food but did not eat it, simply held it limply in her hand.

Erik watched her quietly, as his own appetite left him. Annie looked so somber, so _sad_. It was tearing him apart inside to see her so lost when, since the day they had met, she had been the one who always seemed so sure of what to do. Putting his own rations back inside the pack, he picked up his violin, hoping that a little music might at least calm some of her frayed nerves.

Erik began to gently bow the composition he had written just for her. He had been embarrassed, that first day, when he'd suspected she caught a glimpse of her name scrawled across the top of the page, but in truth, the achingly sweet melody whispered her name more fervently than any letters strung together could ever speak. The bright clear notes as he glided his bow across the strings made him think of Annie's smile, and the way it lit his heart aglow whenever he saw it. The glistening swirls and whirls of the arpeggios were the waves in Annie's hair that cascaded like a sea of black down to her waist. The warm tonality of key was a direct reflection of her soul—which had only ever shown him kindness and acceptance. The song _was_ Annie, in so many ways—its title was only the beginning.

"How did you know, Erik?" he heard Annie's voice, small and uneasy, after a few moments of listening to his song. "To come to the cottage?"

Erik stopped his playing—the music having done its job well enough that Annie at least wanted to talk. He placed the instrument on his lap, and answered, "I…didn't trust him, Annie."

Annie looked straight ahead of her for a few quiet moments, before saying, "You were so sure we should run. _Why_?"

"Well," Erik began with a sigh. "When you told me your stepfather called you a woman, it made me nervous. In the gypsy camp, once a girl was deemed a woman, she was considered eligible to be a _bride_. And then, when you told me he wasn't drinking as much at night—it all just seemed so suspicious…as if there was a specific reason that he wanted to be awake. So I started following you home."

"Erik!" Annie said, in surprise. "You followed me home? Every night this past week?"

"Yes," he admitted.

"But," she argued, finally starting to show some spark of emotion other than sadness. "You could have been discovered. What if he had found you? He would have hurt you, Erik! He would have…"

"If I had not been there, Annie," Erik interjected, as her protestations began to reach a fevered pitch, "he would have hurt you more!"

Annie's arguments were silenced, and she just stared at him with haunted eyes, shuddering as she once again recalled the events of the evening.

Erik cursed his own big mouth, and softened the tone of his voice as he continued, "I was crouching behind the bushes, Annie. I just…I just had to make sure you would be all right. I was well hidden—so much so that my own view was obstructed and I couldn't quite see what was transpiring at first. But then," Erik's voice began to grow tense as he too remembered what had happened in the cottage. "I heard you scream—and I…I knew.

"I ran as quickly as I could to the door, only to find it locked. I struggled with the lock, trying to release it, as I had learned to do when I was locked in my own room at my mother's house. But I was beginning to think there was no hope. I was just about ready to break through a window when the blasted bolt gave way and I made it inside only to find him…"

Annie blanched, holding up a hand to stop him before he was able to finish his thought. Looking away, she stuttered, "I…I know what you f…found him doing,"

"And I knew as well, Annie," Erik said quietly after a moment. "One night, at the gypsy camp, I saw the same thing happen to one of the girls. She had been lured behind a tent by the sweet words of one of the local townsmen, but when she changed her mind and refused his advances, he simply forced himself on her, taking her against her will. I could only partially see what was happening, through the opening in my tent, but I will never forget the muffled screams."

Erik swallowed hard and looked away, remembering that horrific night, when he was forced to bear witness to man's cruelty yet again—only the victim seemed even more miserable than him. He did not relay to Annie the worst part of the memory—the moment when the girl's screams ceased, and the attacker's grunts of perverse effort took over. It was as if she just gave up and resigned herself to her fate because she knew no one was coming to save her. Her spirit had been broken.

"I…" he told her, remembering in vivid detail how chilling her sudden silence was. "Tried to call out for help. I tried to yell to the elders that someone was hurting the girl. But they never paid me any attention—they were so used to ignoring my screams.

"I could not let _him_ do that to you, Annie." Erik swore, recalling how, when the gypsy men finally did arrive to pull the wretch off the girl, she simply sat there limply. Justice was meted out to the attacker in the form of blow after crushing blow, yet even after they had killed him for the crime of tampering with their property, the girl just sat there, staring. "It was bad enough that it happened once and I couldn't stop it," He added, "I could _never_ let that happen to you."

Annie's hand suddenly hovered over his, trembling, yet never actually making contact. "You didn't, Erik," she whispered.

Erik met her gaze, full of emotion. "I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner, Annie," he apologized, his own guilt at the situation finally bubbling forth. "I'm sorry I let it get as far as it did."

Annie shook her head. "You stopped him, Erik. Before he…" her voice trailed off, unable to finish her sentence.

"He never should have touched you, Annie!" Erik raked his fingers through his hair in frustration. "I should have tried harder to convince you to leave. I should have found a way to make you believe we could run. I should have…"

"You saved me!" she cut off his self-punishing tirade before he could continue. "You were my angel! My _Erik_."

Erik looked at her, her eyes full of concern. Even in her own wounded state, Annie sought to ease his turbulent mind, a bit of her characteristic resolve standing strong in the midst of what Erik hoped was her temporary fragility. "I will always be _your Erik_ ," he fervently vowed, eyes ablaze with his warring emotions. And, desperate for some connection, he lifted his fingers to gently stroke her cheek.

But before he could make contact, he saw Annie brace herself, and close her eyes against the impending touch. He was reminded once again of the gypsy maiden so defiled at the camp. From time to time, Erik would see her going about her daily duties—living her life in much the same way as the other ladies did. And yet, she was never quite the same after that fateful night. Her smile did not appear to truly reach her eyes, and she never again seemed comfortable with physical contact…not even with the man she was later given to as a wife.

Hoping desperately that the same would not hold true for Annie, Erik let his hand fall with his heart. "You've had an exhausting day, Annie, to say the least," Erik said, trying to relieve some of the tension of the situation. "If you're not going to eat, you should perhaps rest."

At Erik's suggestion, Annie's eyes did, in fact, start to feel heavy, and she could barely stifle a yawn. "Is it safe, Erik? To sleep?"

"I will make it safe, Annie," Erik promised her. Reaching into his pack, and releasing the monkey from his confines, Erik held him out to her, saying, "Ami and I will be keeping guard."

Annie took the monkey from his grasp, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. "My protectors," she whispered, hugging Ami close as she allowed herself to recline on the ground. Pulling her cloak more tightly about herself, she tucked one arm under her head and let the exhaustion take her.

"Always," Erik whispered, leaning back against the tree as he watched her close her eyes.

 **AN: Poor Annie-Poor Erik. Both of them so broken, poor things.**


	13. Chapter 13

CH 13

Later that night, the screams began. Erik was still reclining with his back against the tree, watching over his dear friend's slumber, when he noticed her head begin to jerk fitfully back and forth. "No," she whimpered in her sleep. "No, please."

Erik immediately recognized that she was having a bad dream, being no stranger to nightmares himself. "Annie," he said gently, hoping that hearing his voice would penetrate her terror, and help dissolve whatever monsters were chasing her in her sleep. "Annie, it's all right—you're only dreaming."

But her thrashing only got wilder, and the whimpers turned into moans. "No, stop! Please, please _stop_!"

"Annie," Erik said a little louder, crouching down to hover close to her. "Listen to me. He can't hurt you. It's only a dream."

When she continued to moan and flail in her sleep, Erik reached out and grasped her by the shoulders, shaking her gently to try to rouse her from the terrors that plagued her. Immediately, Annie let loose with a piercing scream as she struggled against her imagined attacker, eyes still firmly shut. "NO! STOP! DON'T TOUCH ME, YOU FILTHY, DISGUSTING PIG!"

"Annie!" Erik shouted over her, immediately letting go of her arms and leaning back on his heels. "Annie! It's only a dream. It can't hurt you."

Annie finally opened her eyes, locking her gaze with Erik's, an expression of horror washing over her face recalling the words that had just tumbled out of her mouth.

"I'm sorry, Erik," she said, near tears. "Not you. I didn't mean it for you…"

"It's all right, Annie," Erik said, exhaling a deep breath and swallowing hard, so grateful that her nightmare was over. "You were having a bad dream."

"I'm so sorry," she whispered again, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"There's no need to be sorry for anything, Annie," he answered gently, wishing he could brush the sweat dampened hair away from her brow, but knowing he did not dare. "Just, tuck in, and go back to sleep."

She gazed at him a few moments more, as if to ascertain whether he was really all right. When he attempted a feeble smile and nodded to her, she finally closed her eyes. Erik hummed a soft lullaby, hoping it would help her rest. Only when her breathing was deep and steady with sleep, did Erik rake his fingers through his hair and allow his own tears to fall.

When the morning came, Erik insisted that Annie eat a bit of dried meat and a biscuit that they had taken from her stepfather's kitchen.

"I am still not hungry, Erik," Annie protested, as she saw him digging out the food.

"Regardless, you must eat," he stated, ignoring her complaints and setting the breakfast out in front of her, "Or I will not show you what I fashioned for you in the night."

"You…" Annie asked, raising her eyebrow and taking the biscuit in hand. "You made me something?"  
"Eat your breakfast and find out," Erik told her with a satisfied grin on his face.

Tearing off a bite of the biscuit, Annie narrowed her eyes and told him, "You once accused me of being infuriating, Erik. You can be quite exasperating yourself. Did you know that?"

"I pride myself upon it," he answered with a smirk, taking a bite of his own food.

After Annie had eaten all that Erik deemed necessary, he moved behind a nearby tree and returned with the fruit of his night's labors.

"A walking-stick?" Annie asked, a bit confused, as she looked at the large branch, which had been smoothed of bark and splinters, with a section near the top gracefully tapered so that her hand would fit there perfectly.

"Yes," Erik nodded, admiring his own handiwork and not meeting her gaze. "We are going to have to keep moving today, Annie. This should help you keep weight off of your ankle. It should also allow you surer footing on the paths if we should ever need to travel again at night."

Annie watched Erik examining the stick and felt a sudden pang in her chest. She remembered how her friend had tried to help her on their journey in the dark. If she had only allowed him to place a steadying arm on her shoulder, or held his hand so he could guide her through the night, she wouldn't need the walking stick.

"Erik," she began, feeling as if she should apologize for pushing him away since the attack—not to mention the horrific words she said to him last night while in the grips of her nightmare, "I'm so sorry. I can't…"

"Don't be silly, Annie," Erik interjected with an forced smile, still not meeting her eyes. "I know how important it is to you to be independent. I just thought this was one way I could help. Here." He bent over and handed her the walking stick. "If you get the right leverage on it, it'll help you stand up."

"Thank you, Erik," Annie said, a bit uncertainly, as she took the stick from his outstretched hand. Tipping it upright, she did in fact use it to lift herself to a standing position, gingerly placing her ankle on the ground. The pain was still there, but it had lessened, and with Erik's gift, she was fairly certain she would be able to walk.

"Do you feel any better?" Erik asked her, as he went about packing the few belongings they had removed from the satchels overnight.

"A little, yes," Annie nodded.

"Good," Erik said, tying their packs together, and slinging both onto his back. Rising to his full height, he finally looked at her with a smile on his face. "Shall we continue on, then?"

Annie looked at him with furrowed brow and narrowed eyes, a bit perplexed at his apparent good cheer. "Erik," she said, seriously, "I just want to apologize again for the things I said last night."

Annie saw a shadow enter Erik's gaze as memories of her outburst obviously came back to him. Quickly though, it was replaced by his pleasant expression and he simply said, "Annie, you were clearly having a nightmare. It's alright." And with another brief smile, he took a step away, resuming their journey, with Annie following closely behind.

* * *

Their travel was slow, with Erik always being mindful of Annie's injured ankle, and adjusting his long strides to a pace that made it easy for her to follow. As the days went on, her ankle felt better and better, and she found that she needed to rely on Erik's walking stick less and less. Still, she placed it before her with every step, enjoying the tangible reminder of Erik's thoughtfulness and care.

They would move during the daylight hours, making camp in the evening, so that the low light would not present an obstacle for Annie. Once Erik deemed they were far enough away from the farm that light would not draw undue attention, they built fires at night, to stave off the early winter chill. Reclining near the orange glow, they would partake of their evening meals, Erik always serving Annie more food than he took himself. He claimed that it was no trouble, since he was used to going without for days at a time, and that their rations would last longer this way. He was loath to have to hunt for their dinner, and they weren't sure when their journey would take them near a marketplace.

They didn't talk about the attack. Erik knew that it was a difficult topic for Annie and he felt she had already suffered more than she deserved. So he took great pains to keep their conversations light, talking instead about music and architecture, and whether or not they might discover a hidden cave that contained a buried treasure.

"Perhaps we'll find a chest full of rubies!" Erik contended, excitement in his tone.

Annie merely rolled her eyes and answered, "A den full of snakes would be far more

likely out here in the wilderness."

The nights were always the same. When the last embers of their little fires grew low, Erik and Annie would stretch out on the ground to rest for the coming day's travels. Ami the monkey would sit by Annie's head with Erik on the opposite side of the fire. Wrapped snugly in her cloak, Annie would usually fall asleep fairly quickly, but after only a few hours, the terrors would start. She would thrash and moan and cry out in her slumber, reliving the brutal attack again and again.

Though it was always his instinct to wake her and save her from the monsters that were attacking her in her sleep, Erik knew that regaining consciousness during one of these nightmares would only make the terror seem more real. So when Annie would rouse him with her screams in the night, he lifted his violin—that was ever by his side—and played her a soft, gentle lullaby. It took a little while sometimes, and occasionally, he had to hum or sing quietly to her instead, but eventually Erik's music would permeate her restlessness and soothe her troubled soul. Annie would return to her repose, while Erik would remain awake for a long while before falling back to sleep—his heart aching the entire time, as he watched his friend for any small signs of further distress.

It was on a night when it took particularly long for Annie to calm down, that the weight of the situation became too much for Erik to bear. Once her breathing had returned to a deep, steady rhythm, Erik stood up and walked a few paces away from the camp. Picking up a rock from the ground, he threw it as far as he could, hearing the crash of the leaves in the distance as it fell. _It isn't fair! None of this is fair!_ His mind reeled, feeling his emotions swirling in his chest, like waves on a tumultuous sea. _She didn't deserve this!_ He thought, as he slammed a nearby tree with the heel of his palm. _She is innocent!_

Erik slumped to the ground, his head throbbing, his body wracked with sobs. Resting his head on his knees, and wrapping his arms around himself, Erik wept. All the injustices he had known in his young life reeled through his mind. He recalled the terror of being locked in his room as a child for the crime of having a deformed face. He felt the sting of the beating that were doled out for the simple request of a little kindness. He relived the hopelessness of being imprisoned and used as a sideshow attraction for years. Tragically, these were but a few of many horrors he had known. But none seemed quite so incredibly evil as the one that had stolen Annie's innocence, and left her so broken, so afraid.

"Erik?" he heard Annie's small voice approach questioningly behind him, and he knew that once again, he had failed her, disturbing the slumber she so desperately needed.

"I wish he weren't dead, Annie," Erik growled, through clenched teeth, without lifting his head. Though she obviously knew he was crying, he didn't need her to see the evidence of it. "Because every night, when I hear you scream, I want to kill him all over again."

"Erik…" Annie said again, her voice full of sorrow for the turmoil her friend was feeling.

"This time, though," Erik continued, his head rising as his fantasy took shape, causing him to sneer and spit into the darkness, "I wouldn't make it so painless. It wouldn't be so quick! I would make sure he suffered for what he did to you. I would make him _beg_ for death!"

"Erik," Annie said soothingly, taking another step toward him, trying to make him see reason. "You prevented him from hurting me."

"I failed you!" he insisted, shaking his head.

"How on earth did you fail me?" Annie asked, shocked that Erik could say such a thing when it had been him who had halted the attack. "You _stopped_ him."

"I didn't stop him from _changing_ you!" he spat, finally looking in her direction, and behind the mask Annie could see his golden eyes flash with anger. "He took away your laughter, Annie. He took away your spirit. He left you timid and frightened and afraid—even of _me_!" Realizing he had said more than he wanted, Erik turned his head away again, staring off into the night.

Annie watched her friend so tense and miserable in the darkness. He had never asked her for anything—always giving her so much of himself. It never occurred to her how greatly the attack had affected him. But it was clear to Annie now that she had not been her stepfather's only victim that night.

Walking over quietly, to sit beside Erik on the grass, Annie looked into the darkness and said softly. "I've been unfair to you, Erik."

Raking his hands through his hair, Erik said, "That is nonsense, Annie. You haven't been unfair to me."

"Oh, yes, I have," she insisted. "I have depended on you to care for me—to whisk me away from my stepfather's house, to guide me along this journey, to comfort me in the night. All the while, I have been pushing you away."

Erik shook his head, looking down, but his voice was softer when it came. "You don't have to worry about me, Annie…"

"I do worry about you, Erik," Annie cut him off. "Because you think I am afraid of you. I'm not afraid of you, Erik," she told him gently, finally looking in his direction and meeting his eyes. "You are the only person in this entire world that I trust. And I trust you with my _life_." Her gaze held his pointedly, and she saw his eyes begin to mist over.

"But, Erik," she continued, tears coming into her own eyes. "I _do_ fear that something is broken inside of me. I've tried to forget about the attack. I've tried to push that night out of my thoughts. But he _hurt_ me, Erik—my body _and_ my mind—in a way I've never been hurt before. And when I think about someone—anyone—getting close to me or…or… _touching_ me, my heart starts racing and I feel like I can't breathe.

"Whenever I close my eyes, he's there. I see him brutalizing my mother, bruising her flesh and breaking her bones. I see him," she continued, her eyes closing, and her voice beginning to rise to a fevered pitch, "crushing me, ripping my dress, groping at my skin, pressing against me with his…his…making it impossible for me to breathe. I couldn't breathe, with him on top of me Erik," she gasped, her hands trembling. "I couldn't breathe…," Her voice trailed off, and she lowered her head to her knees, trying so hard to forget that night.

Erik looked at his friend, curled into herself on the ground—so lost, so broken. He felt his anger at her stepfather surge once again, but another, more powerful emotion pushed it aside, and allowed him to focus his attention where it truly belonged. His Annie.

"The first touch I remember," Erik said quietly, staring off into the distance, "was the sting of my mother's hand as it landed against my cheek. I was only a young child—barely more than a babe, I think. And I don't remember what I did. But I do remember the blow. It was my introduction to a mother's touch—an initiation to maternal love."

With a mirthless grin, Erik continued. "She would only ever approach me in order to hurt me—beating me for the simple crime of existing, it seemed. She came close only so that she could lock me away, and hide me in that attic room with the boarded windows and the bolted door. Her nearness—her touch—was never a comfort.

"And the neighbor children too—on the rare occasion when I would be allowed out of my house—they never failed to jeer at me, throwing rocks that met their target more often than not. The gypsies once again imposed imprisonment and beatings and endless hours of humiliation.

"So touch has never been a favorite thing of mine. I learned to avoid it, to shrink from it. I stopped believing it was something that could be pleasant—something that could be craved."

"But then you found me." Erik paused to look her in the eyes. "And I saw a hand that reached out toward me in kindness instead of brutality. I felt an arm that wrapped around my shoulders in support. _Your_ touch didn't mean pain. _Your_ closeness didn't mean captivity. You lifted me up and made me feel like I was better than I ever dreamed—stronger than I ever imagined—instead of tearing me down and breaking me apart. You showed me that I didn't always have to shrink away from contact, Annie—that I didn't always have to be afraid of proximity. Perhaps you don't either—perhaps you could allow yourself to feel comfort in being close to me."

Annie looked at her friend, tears rolling down her cheeks, never having realized how much she had changed his life with simple gestures that had been only natural on her part.

"Sometimes, I still see my mother when I close my eyes," Erik added, turning to meet her gaze. "Sometimes, the gypsy master still haunts my dreams. So I know, Annie, about the monsters that live inside our minds. But when those demons come and try to attack _me_ , Annie, to take away _my_ breath, to shatter _my_ soul, I have learned to simply open my eyes and look over at you.

"Erik," Annie shuddered, feeling the tears stream hotly down her cheeks. Lowering her lids, she searched for the words to express the depths of emotion his words had stirred in her. But then there was the gentle pressure of a finger beneath her chin, and Erik was lifting her face.

"Annie," he whispered softly, "open your eyes. Don't see him," he pleaded, "see me. Annie, _please_ see me."

Annie's eyes opened to gaze into Erik's golden orbs, imploring her not to let her stepfather win. And just like floodgates that had suddenly burst open, Annie answered him with one great sob.

"Erik!"

She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him so tightly he could barely breathe. But Erik welcomed this form of strangulation, and tangling his hands into her beautiful tresses, he pressed her head close to his as she cried, his other arm crushing her against him.

"Shhhhh, Annie," Erik murmured again and again. "It's alright. It's all over. I'm here, I'm here."

"Oh, my Erik," she sobbed, clutching desperately at his back, Erik's presence as essential to her at that moment as breathing.

"That's right, Annie," he whispered back, completely unable to let her go. "I'm your Erik and I would never, _ever_ hurt you."

They held one another near, for what seemed like hours, each taking comfort in the embrace that had been denied for too long. Finally, when they were both exhausted, they walked back to the fire, Erik's arm around Annie's shoulders, and Annie's arm circling Erik's waist. As Annie lay down for the night, Erik knelt down beside her, making sure that her cloak was completely tucked in around her, to protect against the chill. He handed her Ami, and made to go over to his own bedding for the night, but Annie stopped him by putting her hand on his arm. "Erik, please stay with me."

"Of course, I will, Annie," Erik answered with the first genuine smile he had smiled since the attack. "I will be right on the other side of the fire stones."

"No," Annie corrected him. "Stay _here_ ," she begged. "With _me_."

It took Erik a moment to understand his friend's request, but once he did, he asked her with questioning eyes, "Annie, are you saying you want me to lie here? _Next_ to you?"

"Yes, Erik." Annie nodded, her eyes looking directly into his soul. "I _need_ you."

Feeling as if his heart would explode in joy, Erik stretched out tentatively on the ground as Annie extended her cloak to cover over him. With a smile, she grabbed Erik's hand, and snuggled close to him, turning on her side so she could rest her head against his chest. Sighing, she whispered, "Thank you, Erik," as she closed her eyes.

" _Anything_ for you, Annie," he whispered back, swallowing down the lump in his throat while tightly squeezing her hand. "Anything."

Annie's sleep came quickly, her body and mind so utterly exhausted from the stress she had finally released. But Erik lay there a little while longer—marveling at the precious weight of Annie's head upon his chest—breathing in her scent. Annie. _His_ Annie. He had lived a childhood of cruelty and neglect—a life filled with mockery and pain. But somehow—he barely _understood_ how—Annie had come into his life and all of that had changed.

Allowing his fingers to lazily tangle in Annie's soft, silken hair, Erik's mind traveled back to the day she gave him his two sweet birthday kisses. He had known—in that moment—the miracle of being loved—of knowing that there was another person in this world with whom he could feel completely safe—who thought _he_ was important, and cared for him most of all.

And as he lay there, with Annie nestled snugly in his arms, the rhythm of her deep, easy breaths making him drowsy, he felt a delicious warmth fill his soul. He knew without a doubt, that he loved Annie too. He had killed for Annie. Had her stepfather not succumbed to his attack, Erik would have gladly died for her. But now, as they faced the world together yet alone, Erik pledged in his heart that he would _live_ for her. His entire life's purpose would be to make her happy—since Annie had shown him the only joy he'd ever known.

Erik yawned and felt the fatigue finally beginning to take him. He pulled Annie even closer, tucking her head protectively under his chin, incredibly gratified by her gentle sigh. And as his eyes shuttered closed, his final thought before drifting off, was that a life spent seeing Annie smile would be a life well spent indeed.

 **AN: Well, lots happened in this chapter. Feelings were shared, horrors were face, and their undeniable bond was strengthened tremendously. Please review and let me know what you think. Thanks!**


	14. Chapter 14

CH 14

The morning woke them with lighter hearts. Annie was the first to stir, and had been afraid, in that split second before opening her eyes, that she would find Erik asleep across the fire, or already awake and packing their satchels for the day's journey—nothing having changed from the bleak days that came before. The surge of joy she felt when she found her hand still clasped within his—her head still resting on his chest—was impossible to contain. The night was truly over, morning had dawned, and Erik was still beside her!

She disentangled her fingers from her friend's and reached up to tenderly cup his cheek. "Erik," she called softly. "Erik, wake up."

When Erik stretched in his waking, momentarily pulling her even closer, a bright smile spread over Annie's features. And it was to this beautiful expression that he finally opened his eyes.

"Annie," he whispered gently, his own lips curling into a grin. "Good morning."

"Yes it is a good morning, Erik!" Annie beamed, giving Erik a quick squeeze. "The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and it's time for us to get up!"

"I can't!" Erik uttered.

"Why?" Annie asked him with wide-eyed concern, wondering if something were wrong with her friend.

"Because you've got me pinned!" he smirked.

Looking down, Annie realized it was true, since her torso was draped across Erik's chest. With a slight reddening of her cheeks, Annie giggled too and sat up. Twisting to the right, she reached over and grabbed her pack, rummaging through to find some food.

"I'm hungry," she said to Erik, removing the pouch of dried fruit and nuts for them to share.

"Good!" he commented, as Annie ravenously tore open the ties and scooped up a handful of the provisions. "Lately, getting you to eat has been like pulling teeth!"

Rolling her eyes, Annie answered, "Well I finally seem to have my appetite back."

"I am glad to see it," Erik smiled, popping a few of the morsels into his mouth. Again, he held back on the food so that Annie could have her fill, finding her smile to be more appetizing than food anyway.

When they had finished their modest breakfast, they went about gathering their supplies so that they could continue on their journey. Once they were all packed, and Annie held her walking stick in her hand, she turned to Erik with a grin. "Alright!" she declared, with a mischievous glint in her eye. "Let's go find that cave of treasures you've been promising me!"

Erik looked into Annie's shining eyes, taking in her smile. Feeling as if his heart would burst with joy, he murmured, "I'm so glad you're back, Annie!" Truly, it had been too long since he had seen her this full of life.

"You brought me back, Erik," Annie declared, folding her arms around his torso and hugging him tightly. " _You_. With your patience and understanding. You helped me realize that I don't have to be afraid—as long as I have you beside me. I know there will be times when what my stepfather did will haunt me, but you have set me on the road to hope"

Erik tried to calm the pounding of his heart as he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her back. Taking in a deep breath, the scent of her hair filling his senses, he rested his chin on her head. Fleetingly, the thought occurred to him that when they first met, such a thing would not have been possible.

"Annie," he commented, trying to lighten the mood, "I think you're actually getting taller."

"Or maybe," Annie countered, in the joking way that Erik loved, "You're shrinking down from your wholly unreasonable giant's height to a stature much more becoming of an actual human being."

"Honestly, Annie," Erik shot back, with a little squeeze. "Why would I wish to regress to mere human status?"

With a laugh, Annie moved out of Erik's embrace, but grasped his hand with her free one. Firmly holding Erik's hand, she set forth with her walking stick and a smile as she led them away from camp. And with a lopsided grin, Erik was powerless but to follow.

They did not find a cave filled with rubies that day—nor the next one after that. Still, the easiness that had returned to their friendship made them feel as if they had re-discovered a great treasure. They set about their travels with chatter and laughter—almost always holding hands—Annie's walking stick helping them to find steady ground on the more treacherous routes. In the evenings, they would build a campfire and Erik would bid the day farewell with a song on his violin, with Annie dancing around the flickering flames. As the fire dwindled to glowing embers they would huddle close and take turns whispering stories—Annie recounting fables that her father had first told her, and Erik spinning tall tales from his own imagination. Finally, they would curl up, snuggled tightly together against the winter chill, with Ami keeping guard. Peacefully, they'd rest in one another's arms until the sun arose to announce a new day, and the whole cycle would start again.

Until, of course, the day they happened upon a place that would make them want to stop traveling for a time.

"Annie, look here!" Erik shouted to her from around a bend. It was the first full morning in their new camp, and Erik had been gathering some fresh firewood while Annie was washing clothes in the stream. They were grateful that weather was relatively mild in the South of France, but still, the chilly nip in the winter air had made their nightly fire more of a necessity than a luxury, and firewood was always one of their top priorities.

"I'm coming!" Annie called back, rising from her work to meet Erik where he had beckoned. "I'm coming!"

Hurrying in his direction, Annie found her friend standing in front of a wide opening in a mountain—the very mountain that seemed to stem the flow of the stream where she had been washing. But, squinting her eyes against the shadows, Annie could see now that the stream did not end, but rather continued to flow _within_ the mountain.

"A cave, Erik?" Annie asked, looking up at him in wonder.

"Yes!" he said, looking ahead at the unexpected marvel he had discovered, excitement clear in his voice.

"Let's go!" Annie declared, making to enter the cave without a second thought.

"Annie, wait a minute!" Erik stopped her, grabbing her by the hand to hold her in place. "You can't just barge in there!" he said, feeling suddenly protective of his friend. "It could be dangerous!"

Annie looked at him, excitement glistening in her eyes. "There could be rubies and buried treasure!" she declared. "You said so yourself!"

"Or there could be snakes," Erik countered. "As _you_ have pointed out!"

"Erik," Annie said, pleadingly, taking his hands in hers, "I know I will be safe with you. We can face anything—together. We've talked about finding a cave for so long. We've _got_ to explore it now that we have."

Erik looked at his friend's beautiful brown eyes, shining with so much trust and belief—in _him_. How could he possibly say no?

"All right Annie, but we must stay close at all times," Erik warned her, holding up a finger to emphasize his point.

With a big smile, Annie said, "Of course!" and then immediately turned and entered the cave before him.

With a huff, Erik scrambled after her, "Hey! Wait for me!"

The cave was a magical place. Sunlight filtered in from the entrance, as well as through small holes in the walls and ceiling above—allowing them to see the mighty stalagmites and stalactites jutting from both the ceiling and the ground. At certain points, the outcroppings seemed to meet, creating the illusion of opulent arches and walkways having been carved out of stone. The stream grew as it twisted through the inner network of rocky protrusions all around them, leaving glistening condensation on the walls. Soon it was a rushing river, fed at one end, by a frothy waterfall, which flowed down steadily from the rocks a level above.

"Erik, it's beautiful," Annie said in wonder, staring up and all around her, as the water droplets gleamed and glittered in the pockets of sunlight.

"That it is, Annie," Erik agreed, taking in the splendid view all around him. He snaked an arm around Annie's shoulder as he did so.

"Think of how your music would sound in here, Erik!" she thrilled. "It would be as if you were playing in a great hall, the notes echoing and resounding off the walls!"

Erik gazed back at her, adoringly, saying, "And you could dance through the sunbeams, making them shine even brighter."

Annie felt her insides flutter, as she always did at his sweet words. Then, taking his hands suddenly, she said with hope in her eyes, "We could stay here, Erik. The air is warmer, and the walls would provide us shelter from the wind. And we even have our own lake, for washing. It could be a home, Erik," she said softly. "Of our very own."

Erik gazed at Annie and felt joy bubbling in his heart. He realized at that moment that he'd never truly had a home. He'd been little more than a prisoner in his mother's house—mostly confined to a creaky, boarded up attic, rarely allowed to see the light of day. He'd escaped that incarceration, only to be captured by the gypsies, where he was once again held imprisoned—this time in an actual cage. The barn had been the closest thing he had to a home thus far in his life, since he had known many moments of joy there. But even the barn fell short of the splendor of this new abode, for with the constant worry about Annie's safety, he always knew they wouldn't be able to stay long.

Here, however, in this secluded rocky shelter, with its pockets of sunlight, and its mighty, rushing river, Erik knew he could have everything he'd ever wished in a place to call his home—warmth, comfort, and… _Annie_.

"It _shall_ be a home, Annie." Erik answered, with shining eyes, reaching out to cup Annie's cheek. " _Our_ home."

When Annie bestowed upon him one of her most beautiful smiles, he could no longer suppress his excitement. Catching her up in his arms, he spun her around, the two friends laughing the entire time. "We're home, Annie." Erik told her when he finally returned her to her feet.

"We're home," she agreed, hugging him once more, happiness filling her heart. _This is good, mother,_ she thought, as they walked hand in hand back to their campsite to retrieve their belongings. _This is so very good._

* * *

The cave served Erik and Annie well, sheltering them from winter's harsher elements, and eliminating their constant need to travel. It could not meet all their needs, however.

Annie was washing their spare clothes in the underground lake, when Erik announced with a frown, "We are going to have to visit a village soon."

"Why?" she responded, ringing out a shirt and hanging it on a nearby stalagmite to dry.

"We are almost out of rations," he informed her. "We need more food."

"Well then," Annie said, turning all her attention to Erik, excitement shining in her eyes. "Let that be today's adventure. We cannot be too far from Toulouse. We still have the money we took. Perhaps we can spend a nice day at the market."

Erik sighed deeply, "No doubt, you will be able to spend a wonderful day there, Annie," he agreed before turning away and gazing off into the shadows. "I, however, will no doubt be the subject of gawking stares, and over-loud whispers."

Her face suddenly furrowing with concern, Annie asked, "Why do you say that, Erik?"

"My face, Annie!" he shot back, looking at her as if his answer should have been the most obvious thing in the world. With a "humph," he flounced down on the ground.

Annie was reminded of the main reason they had stayed away from the rest of society—choosing instead to live in a cave in the woods. Kneeling down next to her friend, she reminded him sheepishly, "You will have your mask, Erik." She hoped the idea would offer comfort.

"Because a masked boy will be so inconspicuous," he retorted, rolling his eyes.

"Erik," Annie said sincerely, taking one of his hands in hers. "I do not care what people think. Neither should you. They know nothing about you."

"Oh," Erik responded bitterly. "But they shall have opinions regardless. And they shall whisper about the strange boy, and what horrors he must be hiding beneath his mask." Erik glanced into the river and saw his masked face staring back at him. Picking up a nearby pebble, he tossed it in the water, causing his reflection to disperse into a thousand ripples. He raked his hand through his hair in frustration, adding, "Worst of all they will be right. I _do_ hide a monstrosity beneath this mask."

Annie looked for a moment at her brooding friend. Slowly extending her hand, she gently lifted the fabric away from his skin. Startled, Erik moved to protest, but before he could, Annie placed another of her sweet kisses upon his disfigured cheek. "They would be wrong," Annie told him gently, gazing directly into his awestruck eyes. "There is no monstrosity. Only you," she brushed his cheek again with her tender lips. "Only Erik."

Erik stared at her in wonder, tears welling in his eyes. "How do you do it, Annie?" He whispered breathlessly, shaking his head. "How do you look at me and not see a monster?"

"Because I see _you_ , Erik," she responded, with a sheepish smile, a bit of bashfulness taking over as she realized how _right_ it had felt to kiss him. " _All_ of you. Even the parts you hide." Swallowing a lump that had formed in her throat, she added, "And I think you are beautiful. Inside and out."

" _You_ are beautiful, my Annie," Erik told her, his voice thick with emotion, as he cupped her cheek in his hand. "You are my angel."

"As you are mine." She responded, laying her own hand over where his rested on her cheek.

The two friends gazed into each other's eyes for a long while, simply letting their emotions wash over them, and bolster their already strong bond. Eventually though, Annie touched her fingertips to Erik's cheek and reminded him, "We should go. It is early still, and perhaps the marketplace will be less crowded."

"Yes," Erik agreed, clearing his throat, and standing, extending his hand to pull Annie up beside him. "We should."

Annie curled her arm around Erik's as they set upon their way, Erik's mask now safely repositioned on his face. After a few quiet steps toward town, Erik murmured, "Thank you for seeing all of me Annie."

Annie leaned her head against his shoulder as she responded, "Thank you for showing me, Erik."

Erik only squeezed her arm more tightly against him and smiled down at her as they continued on their way.

 **AN: Awwww…aren't they just so cute! And they found a home—a very beautiful home, that seems to suit them just fine! Please review, and let me know what you think!**


	15. Chapter 15

CH 15

Though it was still early in the day, Annie's hopes about a less crowded marketplace were not to be. A throng of villagers had amassed to peruse the market's wares and take home carefully selected items wrapped in brown paper. The reason for the crowd was apparent as soon as they spotted the great fir tree in the center of the square, all decorated with golden apples, white paper flowers and big red bows. The Yule was coming—and the villagers had shopping to do.

"Oh, isn't it exciting, Erik?" Annie gasped, grabbing his hand and gazing upon the tree, her face flushed with excitement.

"Isn't what exciting, Annie?" Erik responded, watching each villager within his sight with a cautious eye. His withering gaze turned away many nods of greeting, and soon the crowd had begun to give Erik and Annie a wide berth.

"It's almost Christmas!" she gushed, still dazzled by the festivity around them.

"The commemoration of the birth of the Christ?" he asked, quite distracted by the hustle and bustle around them. "Why should I care for that?"

Annie looked at him incredulously. "Because it is a happy day! It is the time of year we celebrate the Baby Jesu's birth, with sweets, and singing, and presents given to the ones we love. Have you _never_ celebrated?"

Erik rolled his eyes, "Annie, my mother never found any occasion joyous. She was far too busy being depressed that she had given birth to a monster."

"Erik…" Annie began to scold.

"Those were _her_ words, Annie," Erik held his hands up in defense.

"Well," Annie said simply, but authoritatively, "She was wrong. Everyone has a reason to celebrate Christmas. It is the most joyous time of year. Come, let me show you!"

Annie pulled Erik by the arm to show him the various decorations set up around the marketplace, blessing herself when they passed by the crèche, which housed wooden statues depicting the Virgin Mary and her husband Joseph welcoming their holy child. She pointed to the sundry stands offering Christmas biscuits and cakes and the red ribbons around the packages slung beneath the shoppers' arms. As they wandered, Erik took in all of the sights and sounds, not very happy at the prospect of being in such a crowded space, but finding Annie's enthusiasm infectious. That was why he suggested they split up to purchase their needed supplies.

"Are you sure, Erik?" Annie asked, uncertain about leaving him alone in the crowded marketplace, knowing his worries about his face.

"Yes, Annie," he nodded, touched by her concern, but also needing to convince her to give him a little while alone. "I will be fine. Besides, as you said, these people are far too distracted by purchasing their Christmas trinkets to be worried about me," Erik reminded her with a knowing grin.

Annie smiled back. "Alright, Erik, if you are sure you will be fine, meet me back at the market square in about an hour."

"I shall," he gave her a quick nod and watched her hurry off in the direction of one of the enclosed food stalls.

Once Annie was out of view, Erik wasted no time putting his plan into action. He slipped inside a small shop whose sign read, in elegant letters, _Les Accessoires de Ladie,_ a little bell ringing as he opened the door. He walked along the shelves of dainty hairpins and jewelry, judging each piece on its suitability, before finally finding exactly what he had been hoping for.

Waiting in line to pay for his purchase, he could not help but notice couple after couple pausing beneath the doorway to kiss. For most it was a simple peck on the lips before they would scurry on to continue their shopping, and Erik tried very hard to divert his eyes from their modest shows of affection. One young couple, however, stopped and lingered, wrapping their arms about each other tightly, and Erik found that he simply could not look away.

"Ah, it is the mistletoe…" said the elderly shopkeeper, once the man in front of Erik had paid for his purchase, sighing wistfully, when he noticed the direction of his newest customer's gaze. "It makes them forget they are in public."

"Mistletoe?" Erik asked, still staring in the couple's direction in wonder. They certainly seemed to be enjoying their kiss, which was not a mere peck, but one in which their lips engaged in a torrid dance while their arms tangled about one another eagerly.

"Yes, yes," the merchant said. "A kiss beneath the mistletoe brings luck—but these two. They take it a bit too far." He loudly cleared his throat to get the lovers' attention, and with a shooing gesture of his hand, encouraged them to move along. The couple looked up, sheepishly at the shopkeeper, their cheeks turning just a bit red. Erik watched them walk off together, arm in arm into the night, until the shopkeeper cleared his throat once again, this time to get _Erik's_ attention.

"Will that be all, young man?" the kindly fellow asked, hurrying Erik along, as the line was beginning to grow again behind him.

Erik turned to face the shopkeeper head on and tried not to notice his surprise as he took in the mask fully for the first time. "Actually, there will be one thing more…"

* * *

Erik hurried to meet up with Annie at the appointed time, his little purchases tucked into his cloak. He hoped she had managed to buy the food, since his foray into the specialty store had taken longer than he'd planned. Approaching the square with long strides, he heard the sound of music and revelry. But when the violin took up the haunting melody of _Cantique de Noel_ , he was surprised to hear the crowd hush, with only the quiet murmur of the word "ange _"_ being heard above the lilt of the instrument. Erik turned the final corner and the crowd's enchantment suddenly made sense. There, in the middle of the public space, was Annie dancing to the violin's song.

Erik stopped within the crowd of townspeople and just stared like everyone else. Of course he had seen Annie dance before, but the dances she did around the campfire were mostly filled with fun and laughter—they were lively and free. But now, as she moved lithely in time to the delicate carol, the fluid grace and stately elegance that shone forth from her was astounding. Annie's mother had been a ballerina on the stage in Paris, and certainly she had passed her talent on to her daughter. As Erik watched his friend, he felt the breath hitch in his chest. _She is pure beauty,_ he thought, as she tossed her head back in a spin. _Pure, unbridled beauty._

When the song was over, the crowd erupted in applause. Erik even spied some villagers weeping at the exquisite spectacle they had just seen. They tossed coins at her feet in droves—obviously surprising her. Annie looked up and all around, and Erik could tell she was beginning to get a little nervous from all the attention she was receiving.

"I'm here, Annie," Erik whispered, throwing his voice so that it would ring only in her ears, as he pushed his way through the crowd. When he finally reached her, he took her hands in his, rubbing his thumbs in gentle circles on her palms.

"There you are!" Annie said, and Erik could practically feel the tension depart from her body as she smiled. "I heard you, but I couldn't see you."

"I'm right here, Annie," he said, gazing at her with adoring eyes as the crowd slowly began to disperse.

"I am glad, Erik," Annie whispered, her smile growing even brighter.

Gesturing at the money that had amassed the ground, he told her, "This is for you."

She looked toward her feet, still a bit in shock, and was taken aback by the amount of coins before her. "For me?" she asked, astounded.

"Yes, for you." Erik assured her, smiling. "I would have tossed some coin in your direction as well, but I believe roses would look far better lying at your feet."

Blushing with his praise, Annie rolled her eyes, "Oh, Erik…"

"You will dance on the Paris stage one day," he told her with pride.

Looking down, she shook her head, "I have no need to be on the Paris stage."

"After watching you just now," Erik told her, seriously. " _I_ have need to see you there." His eyes blazed as he continued, "You were exquisite."

And once again, under Erik's intense gaze, Annie forgot how to breathe.

"Shall we collect your tribute and take our leave?" Erik asked, after a few moments of silence.

Annie nodded her head saying, "Certainly."

They crouched down and gathered the coin, making certain to give a good bit to the violinist who had played for Annie's dance. Then picking up a large sack that had been lying off to the side, Annie linked her arm with Erik's once more. As they started for their underground home, Annie asked, "Erik, did you buy any food? I got a little sidetracked."

And chuckling, Erik turned and led her back to the food stalls, which had been the intent of their journey all along.

* * *

Erik was lost in his thoughts as he built their evening fire. Though he was loath to admit it, he had quite enjoyed his time at the market. There had been a few sidelong glances, to be sure, but not nearly as many as he had been expecting. Perhaps it was because the holiday was nearing and the villagers were more concerned with their shopping and celebrating, than with one teenage boy wearing a mask. Or perhaps he simply had not noticed many stares, because his own mind had been so distracted by thoughts of Annie.

Glancing over his shoulder, Erik continued to stoke the fire. Annie was busy putting away the supplies they had finally remembered to buy at the market. Even while performing mundane chores around their new home, her movements were like a dance. Erik watched her a moment more, as she fluidly made her way around the cave, entirely oblivious to his attention, humming to herself as she worked. She was so graceful, so elegant—so… _beautiful_. And as he stared, he felt a pit form in his stomach when he thought of his purchases at the market.

Her joy and exuberance in the village square had been infectious, and Erik had felt his own heart growing a bit lighter simply from listening to her tales of love and warmth surrounding this feast of . . .Christmas. Erik had never before experienced Christmas, not having been taught to worship the Christ child, and certainly never having had any loved ones in his life. The one person in the world that was supposed to care for him above all else had shown him nothing but rejection and neglect. But as Erik had listened to Annie talk, her joy and excitement just radiating from her being, he was reminded that he did have a loved one now—even if he hadn't told _her_ as such. If it were within his means, Erik would gladly give her the moon and stars. That was why he had orchestrated the time apart from her at the market.

 _But will she like the meager trinket I chose from the store?_ He wondered as he continued to gaze at his lovely friend. _Will she think it nothing more than a foolish bauble that could never hope to compete with her true beauty? And what of the … other thing?_

Erik's mood grew dark as he became more and more convinced of his foolishness. He turned back toward the fire and poked at the flames with a stick, deriding himself for even hoping that Annie would honor him by wearing the inadequate trifle he chose. She deserved so very much more.

"Well, that's that!" Annie said cheerfully, as she flounced down next to him, her chores completed for the evening. Her sack from the market was next to her, and she was excited to share its contents with Erik. One glance at her friend's pensive face, however, told her that he did not share her cheer. "What's wrong, Erik?" she asked, the smile fading from her lips.

"Nothing," he muttered as he stared at the flame.

"I find that hard to believe," she answered with furrowed brow. "Did something happen at the market? Did someone say something unkind to you?" Annie's voice grew alarmed and her eyes widened with concern, "Did someone _do_ something to hurt you?"

"No. _No_ , Annie," Erik answered, chuckling a bit nervously as he finally looked in her direction. "I actually had a very nice time at the market."

Annie searched her friend's face, silently cursing the fabric that obscured so much of his expression. She could see the hint of a sweet smile curving up on his lips as he made his assurance, but there was a definite shadow of uncertainty in his otherwise glowing golden eyes.

"Your dancing, Annie…" Erik continued, just a touch of shyness in his voice. "It was beautiful."

Annie felt her own cheeks redden just a bit at his praise, and found that she had to look away from his golden gaze. "Thank you, Erik. I couldn't help myself. It was just such a beautiful song."

"That you made all the more lovely," he said, in velvety tones.

Annie felt her stomach flip flop at his comment. She had never really cared about being pretty, or lovely, or in any way pleasing to the eye. Typical feminine concerns had never been foremost in her mind. Now, though, for some reason, she could not imagine anything in the world that she would rather be than beautiful in his eyes.

Taking a breath, and trying to prevent her heart from bursting, Annie smiled and said, "Erik, remember when I told you that Christmas was near?"

Once again feeling a sense of dread, Erik responded, rather unenthusiastically, "Yes."

"Well, I uh…" Annie began, spitting out her words quickly, to battle the sudden awkwardness she felt, "got you a present."

Erik's eyes grew wide as he just stared at her for a moment. "A present, Annie?" he asked, truly surprised.

"Well, yes," she answered, paying no mind to the fact that she could feel her cheeks reddening once again. "I told you that Christmas was a time of giving gifts to… the people we … well, I…" Annie's voice trailed off and she felt at a loss for words. Frustrated at the strange, sickly feeling that was blooming in her stomach, she huffed and grabbed her sack from the market. Reaching in and retrieving her purchase, she thrust the gift into Erik's hands.

"Here!" she said, artlessly. "Open it."

Erik looked at the rectangular package in his hands. His intentions at the market had been focused entirely on getting _Annie_ something special—he'd never expected her spend precious coin on a present for him. But here it sat in his lap, expertly wrapped in brown paper and tied with a silky black ribbon. He didn't know what to say.

As his trembling fingers reached forward to untie the bow, Annie blurted, "I asked for a red ribbon, but they said all they had left was black. I'm sorry."

"No, Annie," Erik insisted with a shaky voice, setting the ribbon aside. "I like the black. It's very elegant."

Erik slowly unfolded the paper from his gift, being very careful not to tear it. He gasped when he revealed a book. " _Chefs-d'œuvre de l'architecture_ ," he read the elegantly embossed title out loud, lifting the considerable volume into his hands, and turning it all about, examining the spine and the back cover. "Masterpieces of Architecture!"

"I know you enjoy reading, Erik," Annie said, by way of explanation. "And I remember you telling me how much you love architecture…"

"Annie," Erik said, with a smile, voraciously flipping through its pages, "This is perfect! Here," he said, shifting the book so that it sat across both of their laps, making it easy for Annie to see its contents. "I knew there would be an illustration of this building. Just look at it! The design is so dignified and refined."

Annie leaned in close and gazed at the picture of the building of which Erik was so fond. The two friends spent quite some time poring over the pages of the book, Erik expounding on the finer details of this cathedral, or that palace, sometimes disagreeing vehemently with the author's position on the facility of certain design elements. Though Annie had never really thought much about architecture before, she found Erik's "lessons" vastly interesting, mostly because of the intense passion he displayed for the subject. Enraptured by his words, she experienced a sense of weightlessness as he described the high ceilings of a Gothic cathedral, and could practically feel the warmth that a sculptor could glean from a cold slab of stone. He was a fascinating lecturer, and Annie was swept away by his zeal.

It was growing quite late by the time Erik had turned the last page and closed its cover. "One day, Annie," Erik said dreamily, "We shall see all of these buildings. We shall travel through Europe—around the _world_ —and look at them all, up close."

"Anywhere you go, Erik," Annie yawned, resting her head on Erik's shoulder, "I shall follow. Of course, listening to you speak about them, I feel as if we have already been there."

Erik turned his head toward her to respond, but his senses were once again overcome by the sweet scent of Annie's hair. All at once, his heart was pounding and his lungs were bereft of breath. She had given him such a wonderful gift—and he was in no way sure that the gift he had chosen for her was in any way adequate. Yet if he didn't give it to her, then she would have no gift at all this Christmas—a season, which by her own explanation, meant giving things to the beloved people in one's life. And she had given a gift to him…

"Annie," he said, his voice, dry with nerves.

"Mmmmm?" she answered, snuggling her head a little closer to his neck.

"You…" he began, reaching into his pocket to retrieve the small box from the store. "Were not the only one who got…sidetracked…at the market." He held the box out in front of her as he said the last words.

Annie slowly lifted her head from Erik's shoulder and stared at the box that was resting in his shaking hand. "Erik," she said, truly shocked by her friend's actions. "You bought me a gift?"

"Yes," he nodded, with a smile still offering the box to her.

"But… you didn't even want to _go_ to the market!" she exclaimed.

"I didn't," he told her, pushing his hand even closer to her, hoping she would just take the present.

"And you said you had never even celebrated Christmas," Annie continued.

"I hadn't," Erik confirmed, looking at her expectantly.

"Then…" she said, looking with confusion toward the gift and then back at her friend, " _why_ would you buy me a gift?"

Losing his patience, Erik blurted, "Because you told me Christmas was a time to give gifts to the ones we love, and…" Erik stopped there, feeling suddenly ridiculous that the present was still sitting there, perched on his palm, like a bird in a tree. "Annie, please," he huffed. "My arm is getting tired! Just _take_ it."

With a sheepish smile and not another word, Annie took the gift from Erik, who immediately drew his hand back and started rubbing his arm, to distract himself from watching her open it.

When she lifted the lid of the black jeweler's box, she could not contain a gasp. Inside was the most lovely hair comb she had ever seen. Its teeth made of tortoiseshell, it was adorned at the top with a small black fan that would curve with her head. At the base of the fan was a delicately carved rose in full bloom. It was not ostentatious, or showy, but understated and graceful—exactly the style Annie would have chosen for herself, if she were in need of a fine accessory.

"Oh, Erik!" she exclaimed, gingerly lifting the dainty treasure from its box. "It's beautiful!"

Erik released a breath he had not realized he had been holding. "Do you really think so? You do not believe it foolish?" he responded, speaking quickly, in his relief that his gift had been positively received. "I only wanted to get it because it is winter and I cannot find any more real roses for you to wear in your hair."

Annie's heart absolutely melted at hearing Erik's hurried explanation of his reasoning for the choice. Knowing that he was once again trying to give her a flower for her hair, made her cherish the present all the more, and she simply said, in a hushed tone, "I love it."

Erik beamed at her words, having wanted nothing more than to please her. "So, you'll wear it?" he asked, excitedly.

"Of course! Every day!" Annie said. "Will you help me put it in?" she asked, holding the comb out to Erik.

Swallowing at the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat, Erik smiled tightly and nodded. He took the comb, and reached gentle fingers forward to brush her thick black hair behind her ear. He then carefully slid the comb into her tresses, letting it rest securely among the waves.

"There," he said breathlessly, when he was done.

"Is it lovely?" Annie asked, since she had no mirror to check for herself.

"So _very_ lovely," he murmured, marveling not so much at the comb, but at his friend. _You are so very lovely_ , he thought to himself.

Annie smiled at her friend's faraway gaze as he assessed the comb's beauty. "Thank you, Erik," she said. "It's perfect."

"You're welcome. And thank you, Annie, for the book," he said, taking her hands in his. "You made my first Christmas perfect!"

Annie once again felt that blush come over her cheeks, and she cursed her heart for fluttering. Looking down, away from Erik's gaze, she noticed something on the ground between them. It was a small bunch of oval green leaves, with clusters of waxy white berries scattered between them. The top was tied with a red ribbon. "Erik," Annie asked, picking up the tiny bouquet, "What's this?"

"Oh, that!" Erik exclaimed with a nervous chuckle. It must have fallen out of his pocket when he retrieved Annie's hair comb. "That's just some greenery the shopkeeper threw in for free! Said it was _festive_ , or some nonsense like that." _Liar!_ His conscience accused him. _You purposely asked for a bunch of the stuff after you'd seen the tradition surrounding it up close._ And true, he _had_ purchased it, with the thought that he might possibly use it as an excuse to bestow upon Annie's cheek one of the kisses that she had so freely given him. But he had thought better of that plan, and never wanted Annie to even know he had it, planning to hide it out in the woods in the morning light.

"It's mistletoe!" Annie declared with surprise.

"Yes," Erik nodded, clearing his throat, and loosening the collar of his cloak just a bit, suddenly growing quite warm. "I do believe he mentioned that was its name."

"Do you know what people do under the mistletoe?" Annie asked, smiling.

"No, I…" he began, and then, looking her sheepishly in the eye said, "Yes. I saw several couples engaging in the tradition right in front of me, as I was waiting to pay for your comb."

Annie nodded, "There was a lot of that happening in the market today."

"Indeed," Erik responded. "But I don't want you to think …" he started nervously. "I mean, you don't have to…" he stammered, until finally looking at her and saying, with sincere eyes, "What I'm trying to say, Annie, is that we don't have to do anything with the mistletoe. It doesn't really mean a thing. It's just a plant—that's all."

Annie looked at her dear friend. She could tell he was so nervous about her finding the mistletoe that had been tucked into his pocket. She knew that they could just tuck the greens away somewhere and forget about them come morning—never speaking of this again. And yet, as she gazed at Erik's glowing golden eyes, Annie could also see some flicker of question in his gaze—as if he were silently asking her, "Please?"

Annie grasped the mistletoe by the stem, and agreed, "You're right, Erik. It's just a plant." But then, slowly lifting it above her head, she whispered with a smile, "Merry Christmas."

Erik stared at his friend and at the undeniable invitation she was giving him. And willing his fluttering heart not to fly out of his chest, Erik leaned forward to give Annie a kiss.

He had meant for it to be a mere peck on her cheek, over practically before it had begun, but at the last moment, Annie shifted her head, and when he felt the sweetness of her lips against his, he found that he could not so easily pull away. Allowing his eyelids to fall closed, Erik never moved against her, never twisted his arms around her back, as he had witnessed that couple in the store doing, but merely held his mouth against hers as she was holding hers against his. If he had thought Annie's hair was soft, the softness of her lips was indescribable, and Erik felt as if he was melting into her, despite the cool air around them.

When at last Erik pulled back, he took a deep, steadying breath before he could open his eyes to see Annie smiling back at him, a tint of pink coloring her cheeks, her own eyes slightly glazed. "Merry Christmas," she said again, with a trembling voice.

Erik reached forward and traced the pad of his thumb down one overly rosy cheek, resting finally at the corner of the upturned lips he had just kissed. "Merry Christmas," he purred, before pulling her into a tight embrace.

When Annie threw her arms about Erik's neck, she lost hold of the mistletoe, but she didn't really mind. She knew from this point forward that they wouldn't really need it anymore.

 **AN: Their first romantic kiss! I think they both liked it! I bet there will be more…** **J**


	16. Chapter 16

CH 16

For a time, Erik and Annie seemed to live an idyllic existence, spending much of their time simply enjoying the cave they called their home. They found that their subterranean river made a wonderful bathtub as well as swimming hole, and they would often exhaust themselves splashing and playing in the water for hours. Some days were spent in the great, empty chamber they had discovered, where they would call out, time and again, and wait in anticipation as the playful walls bounced their sounds back to them in response. Other days Erik spent time wandering through the many offshoot tunnels, tapping gently on the stalactites to find ones that would emit hauntingly beautiful tones. "They're like the pipes of an organ, Annie," Erik remarked in wonder. "You could use them to play a song."

"Yes Erik," Annie responded, rolling her eyes. "If you could run quickly enough through the entire cave to beat them out in time."

"You can be rather a spoil sport, you know that, Annie?" Erik huffed with a sigh, causing Annie to giggle wildly.

"Well, you promised me rubies, Erik!" Annie teased good-naturedly, as she crouched forward to avoid a low hanging protrusion, recalling the tale Erik had spun about treasure chests full of jewels hidden in the shadowy crevices of the cave. "And yet, all you have shown me are musical rocks."

"And _you_ promised me a den of snakes!" Erik retorted, playfully slinking around a rocky pillar, to pop out into Annie's path, causing her to shriek in glee and dissolve into hysterics. "It might be safer if neither of us kept our promises. Besides," he asked, reaching out and brushing her hair away from her eyes, which seemed to be one of his favorite pastimes, "What need do we have for rubies, when your smile already sparkles so bright?"

Her laughter quieting, Annie smiled up at Erik, stars shining in her eyes. "You have a way with words, Erik!" she murmured, before turning and continuing on in their adventure.

In the evenings, they would build a small fire near the mouth of the cave, whether the temperature demanded it or not. Erik would play Annie's song on his violin. It had grown and become much more elaborate since having been scrawled in a notebook on the farm—it was lush and it was freeing, and of course, Annie would dance. Her graceful movements would cause the music to evolve even further, as Erik poured his emotional reactions into her song.

Occasionally, trips to the market were required, in order to replenish their supplies. Erik was still wary of going about in public, but Annie's dance during their Yuletide visit had given him an idea. He would take along his violin, and play for a while in the market square, while Annie dazzled the onlookers with her exquisite dancing. He made his mask simply a part of their act, calling himself _The Masked Musician_ , and creating an air of mystery about his person. When enough coins had fallen at Annie's feet, the two friends gathered up their booty and made their way through the shops and stalls to procure what supplies they needed.

By early summer, Erik and Annie had become such a hit at the market square that the merchants arranged for them to give special, announced, performances. They expected the square to be teeming with visitors from other towns, who would come to see the remarkable performers. As they began their journey to the village the afternoon of the first show, Erik pulled Annie over to the side of their rocky domain, where several bushes were now blooming with roses.

"They may call me the Masked Musician, Annie," he told her, as he expertly arranged her hair around the fragrant red bloom he had just plucked. "But the world shall know _you_ as the Wild Dancing Rose." As a blush spread widely over Annie's cheeks, he murmured, "And a rarer, more perfect blossom they shall never find."

Their performance that evening did, indeed, draw a large crowd and Erik and Annie's efforts were met with thunderous applause. The Masked Musician and the Wild Dancing Rose soon became a well-known act, performing regularly, instead of on a whim. The extra money they earned allowed them to purchase several items to make their home even more inviting, and often,

the two friends would huddle closely together on soft rugs and furs they had purchased at the market to peruse Erik's architecture book.

They read slowly, often only going through a page or two a night, stopping to vividly imagine the adventures they could have in each of the locations listed. From playing hide and seek among the dolmens at Stonehenge, to watching the sunrise over the Acropolis—it all sounded exciting, but nowhere more so to Annie than the floating city of Venice.

"Venice is a glorious city, Annie, full of the most wondrous architecture—and beautiful music. It is said that music and singing is everywhere in Venice," Erik said, a glint of excitement in his eye. "People sing in their homes, in the markets, and in the long, narrow gondolas in which they go about town," Erik explained, pointing to a drawing of the canals that served as the city's streets.

"Well, that sounds just like here!" Annie declared with a smile. "Water where you least expect it, and music everywhere." She let out a little chuckle and gazed again at the picture in Erik's book. "I should love to go there one day!" Annie said wistfully, "Traveling down musical waterways by boat sounds so much nicer than clomping about on cobblestones with horses and carriages."

"Then we shall visit Venice, Annie!" Erik insisted, with a smile. "Right after you make a name for yourself on the Paris stage!"

"Erik," Annie rolled her eyes. "I have no great dreams of dancing on the Paris stage."

"But Annie," he insisted, looking straight into her eyes. "I have dreams _for_ you! I see the joy in your eyes when you dance at the square—the way you captivate the audience. You _could_ grace the stage! You would be magnificent—just like your mother before you."

Despite her protestations, the thought of following in her mother's footsteps did appeal to Annie somewhat. Yet she also recalled, that the ever beautiful and elegant Clarice Laramie chose to stop performing when she married and started a family. The stage held no appeal for her once she had found true love. "It would be lovely, Erik," Annie admitted. "But I truly have no need to dance on stage. I like our simple home here."

"You shall have a home befitting you, Annie!" Erik vowed solemnly. "You are made for greatness."

Annie simply shook her head and smiled, saying, "And what of you, Erik? The people at the market square come to hear you as much as they come to see me. With your music, you could capture hearts!"

Erik scoffed "And with my face, I could stop them!"

"Erik," Annie rolled her eyes at her friend's never ending ability to paint himself in the worst possible light. "People clamor to hear your masterful music!"

"Ah," Erik protested. "But if they ever saw my face, they would run."

" _I_ have seen it," Annie reminded him. " _I_ have not run."

"I know," Erik said softly, tracing a finger slowly down her cheek. "But you're different, my wild rose. You're so much stronger than the rest. Like I said, Annie, you were made for greatness."

"I already have greatness, Erik," she said, reaching up and catching his hand in hers. "I have you."

"You shall always have me, Annie," Erik vowed folding her tightly into his arms. "Along with some pointe shoes."

Chuckling softly, Annie looked at her friend. "Erik," she told him. "You are incorrigible."

"I am simply determined to see you shine," he answered, giving her a little squeeze, as she positioned herself to lay her head on his shoulder.

"Erik," Annie said after a few quiet moments looking up at the moonlight, having captured one of Erik's long locks and was twisting and untwisting it around her forefinger.

"Mmmmm?" he answered after a minute, enjoying the soothing movement of her fingers. It had become a habit of hers—one he absolutely loved—to weave her fingers in and out of his hair. Truthfully, the main reason he did not try to find some means to cut his unruly tresses was that Annie's fingers were too sweet a pleasure to forego.

"Why do you still wear the mask?" she asked gently, without meeting his gaze.

Suddenly, the relaxation Erik felt at Annie's gentle tugging and weaving was all gone, and a sense of panic and nerves began to build within him.

"Annie," he began, with a dry throat. "You know… You _know_ …"

When he could not seem to find the words to articulate his meaning, Annie took over.

"Erik, I know you feel the need to hide your appearance from people so that they do not shun you, or even worse, hurt you because of your face. And I know the mask has become a part of our act, creating mystery and intrigue about the man who so masterfully bows the violin. But here you are _home_ , Erik. Why must you wear the mask here?"

Erik swallowed against the lump that had formed in his throat and shook his head. "Annie, I…" he tried to explain his reasons for doing what he did, but his voice trailed off as he found that he could not.

"Erik," she said, turning to him, and looking him directly in the eye. She had been thinking about what she was going to say for quite some time. Finally, she felt she was ready to pour out her soul. "I understand that your mother, and the gypsies, and all the other cruel people you have met in your life have made you feel like your face is something that should not be looked at—something that should be hidden. Something that is _wrong_. But to me, you are not wrong. To me, you are everything that is right.

"I _want_ to see you, Erik, not some piece of fabric that hides your expressions. I don't care about the deformity that lies beneath. I know your heart, Erik. And it is your heart that makes you— _all_ of you—beautiful to me. Please don't hide from me any more."

Slowly, Annie reached out and took the ties of Erik's mask in her fingers, looking at him questioningly, as if asking permission. "Please, Erik?" she asked once again.

Erik absolutely could not breathe. He knew Annie had seen his face before. She'd seen it the very first night she'd met him, in fact, and had still come back. She'd cared for him and tended his injuries the night they'd fled the gypsies, with his mask removed, and in the morning, though _he_ had been mortified to be without it, _she_ never flinched in her ministrations to his need. Erik knew, at this moment, that he wore the mask for his own benefit. So he didn't have to think about his appearance—so he didn't have to feel embarrassed or self conscious, or insecure. But when Annie was looking at him, and pleading with her beautiful caring eyes, did he really have the strength to say no, simply because of his own comfort? Especially when the greatest comfort he ever felt was when he saw her smile?

Slowly, Erik nodded his head, and he felt Annie's fingers deftly untie the cord. Delicately, she loosened the fabric, and removed the mask from his face, laying it down on the ground beside them. When his shame was laid bare, Erik tried to look down, to turn away, unable to bear seeing what emotion would enter her eyes. But Annie gently nudged his chin up, forcing him to meet her gaze.

Her eyes locked with his for a moment, and oh, she was smiling, melting away his trepidations with the curve of her lips. Slowly, her gaze shifted to fall upon his right cheek, her fingers following suit as she traced the lines of his disfigurement. Erik shivered slightly as she sent tiny tremors through his overly sensitive skin, which was so unused to being touched. Using her other hand, she ran a finger down his other cheek, touching every surface of his neglected, forgotten face with her precious, adoring hands.

When her thumbs reached his lips, Erik gently took her hands in his, pressing them to his chest. Then, cupping her cheeks, he lightly brushed his face against her as their lids fluttered closed. And parting his lips just slightly, he tenderly brought his mouth down and fitted it perfectly with hers.

It was not the wildly passionate kiss of seasoned lovers—nor was it a fleeting peck goodnight. But Erik and Annie kissed as two souls between whom a bond had formed. It was a vow of acceptance, a pledge of loyalty, a tie that each knew could never be broken. This attachment had been forged from their earliest moments, when each had accepted the other's darkness, only to see it turned to light. It was a connection that would be with them the rest of their days—and neither one of them would ever have wanted it any other way.

When their lips had finally separated, Erik rested his forehead against Annie's, as she continued to stroke his cheek. Eyes closed, he whispered, "I _love_ you, Annie," knowing it to be irrevocably true.

"And I love you, Erik," she whispered back, her heart so full of sweetness that it was about to burst, as she pulled his lips once again to hers. _This is good, mother_ , Annie thought once more as she and Erik shared another precious kiss. _This is so very good_.

 **AN: They are so good together and so much in love. What could possibly happen to alter their paradise?**


	17. Chapter 17

**AN: I just want to say a quick thank you to all of my reviewers! I try to respond to each one-and if I've missed anyone, I'm truly sorry. But I do so love reading your thoughts-so PLEASE keep them coming. :)**

CH 17

And so as time continued to pass, life and love treated Erik and Annie well. Their affections for each other grew sweeter and stronger every day, as they delighted in time spent alone together, reading, dancing, Erik playing the violin. Sometimes, especially at night, they simply reveled in the joy and wonder of their life together. Erik often marveled, as he gently stroked his beloved's cheek in the glow of the dying fire, that such a beautiful young woman could have fallen in love with him. For a woman Annie had truly become. Gone were the days when she could be mistaken for a little girl. In the time that they had been living in the wilderness, Annie had grown from a petite, tiny thing whom Erik could lift on a whim, to a breathtaking young lady with a long, lithe stature that Erik found mesmerizing.

Yet, as they continued to mature, the innocent sweetness of their love began to ripen into something…more. New feelings—new…impulses—began to emerge as they continued to grow ever closer. Their kisses grew deeper and more fevered, and their hands developed a habit of instinctively wandering to places they would never before have gone. Often, their embraces would come to an abrupt end when Erik would force himself out of Annie's arms, and depart for a long walk in the woods—alone.

At first, Annie felt hurt, not understanding why, time and again, he pulled away from her, or why, when she would wake in the morning, she would frequently be alone. She was not proud to admit that there were even moments when doubts about Erik's affections would creep into her mind. Yet, for the most part, his sweetness remained, and his love for her seemed so unquestionable in all other ways that Annie never said anything. Until one night, when their goodnight kisses had grown a bit heated, Annie felt one of Erik's hands drift to rest upon her bottom, pressing her lower region tightly against his. Sighing softly, Annie wrapped her arms even more tightly about him, and wriggled slightly against the curious protrusion at the front of his trousers.

In a heartbeat, Erik sprang away from her, instantly on his feet. Annie opened her eyes to see him standing with his back to her, one hand leaning up against the wall, the fingers on his other hand raking through his bed tousled hair.

"Erik," she called in alarm, sitting up and instinctively wrapping the furs around her. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing, Annie," Erik tried to dismiss her worries, but his shallow tone and his reluctance to meet her eyes did the exact opposite. "Nothing's wrong…"

"I don't believe you," Annie told him in no uncertain terms.

"Annie, really," he insisted, his voice cracking just a bit. "I'm fine…I just need some air…" he told her, as he started to move toward the opening of the cave.

Pushing off the furs, and rising to her own feet, Annie followed after him. "No, Erik," she begged, reaching out to touch his shoulder, "please don't leave…"

Visibly flinching at her touch, Erik rounded on her to brush her arm away. "Don't touch me!" he cried, sending shivers of fear down Annie's spine. When he saw the look of abject pain in her eyes, however, he instantly regretted his reaction.

"Annie, I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head, and using both hands to cup her cheeks. "I'm so sorry."

"I…" Annie began, tears threatening in the corners of her eyes, her humiliation making her words come haltingly. "I…didn't realize it was such a chore to endure my touch…"

"No, Annie," Erik shook his head again. "No, no no, that is not what I meant."

"Then what, Erik?" Annie begged him answer her, "What's wrong?"

Erik fought for a long moment to control his warring emotions before pulling away from her and blurting out, " _I_ am wrong, Annie!" in a tone dripping in self-disgust. "They were all right about me. They gypsies, the neighboring children—even my own mother. They were right. I _am_ a monster!" he railed, as he once again turned away, his head lowering in disgust.

Her heart pounding wildly in her chest, Annie demanded, "Erik, you must tell me right now why you are saying these ridiculous things about yourself."

"They are not ridiculous," he groaned, still hiding his face. "They are true!"

"They are not!" she insisted.

"I am not good, Annie!" he moaned once more.

"Erik," she pleaded with him. "Please. _Look_ at me."

Slowly, Erik turned to face her. He met her gaze, his eyes sad and forlorn. "Erik," Annie began, gently. "You are _all_ things good to me. You are music, you are brilliance, you are sweetness itself. You are kind, and gentle, yet fiercely protective. You take care of me, you listen to me, you make me laugh. You are my friend, and my partner. You _love_ me—and I love you. How can you ever think that you are a monster? How could you possibly claim that you are not good?"

Erik was momentarily overwhelmed by the pure adoration in Annie's response. It made the

admission of his sins that much more difficult.

"I _want_ to be good, Annie, but lately, I…I have been having…impure…desires," Erik choked out the words, his golden voice tight and strained. "When I'm with you—when we…kiss…," he swallowed hard, his throat feeling like sandpaper. "I…I feel as if I need to be closer to you, Annie, and yet, I can never get close enough. All night, I dream of you and when I wake in your arms… I…I… Annie, I think things…I _want_ things." He looked at her with guarded eyes, horrified by his own revelation. "Things I know I _shouldn't_ want. But I do want them. _With you._ And my body…" he closed his eyes and turned his head away, hardly bearing to be within her sight, "betrays me."

Annie was beginning to understand what he was so miserably describing—the new feelings inside that burned when they were together—and the urgings to give in to the flames. Of course, she felt them too. "Erik," she whispered, reaching out a comforting hand to his.

"Annie how can you bear to touch me?" Erik moaned, pulling back. "I am as bad as your stepfather!"

Angry now, Annie's words inched out through clenched teeth. "Don't you dare compare yourself to _him_ , Erik!" Her nostrils flared and her eyes blazed as she continued, "You are _nothing_ like him! He was a beast, who did nothing but beat my mother and use us both for his own gain! _You_ ," she paused to once again take his hand in hers, her tone softening. "You make me feel as if I can fly. You are no monster, Erik. You are my _angel_."

Tears welled up in Erik's eyes, and he pulled Annie close for an embrace. "I love you, Annie," he sobbed into her shoulder, clutching her to him for dear life.

"I love you too, Erik," she whispered back, soothingly, gently stroking his hair.

After a while, Erik's tears quieted, and with a gentle tug, Annie pulled him to sit down with her once again on the furs. Gently brushing his fingers across her cheek, Erik searched Annie's eyes. After seeing nothing but love and understanding there, he said, "I still don't know what to do with these feelings, Annie. Sometimes…they threaten to overwhelm. There are times when I…" he momentarily averted his eyes, but when Annie clasped his hands in hers, he forced himself to look at her once again. "I can think of nothing else but how your skin would feel against mine. Or even…" he took a deep breath, bracing himself before saying the next words, yet feeling that Annie deserved his honesty, "how it would feel to lie with you. I'm sorry, Annie," apologies immediately tumbled out of his mouth, as he closed his eyes and shook his head. "I'm sorry. You don't deserve my twisted mind."

"Erik," she said softly, her thumb rubbing gentle circles on his palm. "Do you honestly think you are alone in your…desires?" When Erik made no response, but merely stared back at her questioningly, her cheeks blushed slightly, as she admitted, "I too have felt as if I were melting when enclosed in your embrace. And…when you kiss me, a certain…" she swallowed hard and lowered her eyes before continuing, "…sweetness… spreads throughout my body. It has often left me yearning for more."

Slowly extricating one of his palms from Annie's grasp, Erik used feather light fingers to brush the hair away from her face. "I had no idea, Annie," he whispered, huskily, "that you desired me too."

"I do, Erik," Annie shuddered, dropping her head back as his fingers continued to graze along her jawline and down her throat. "I do."

"I thought…" he murmured between heavy breaths, his fingers now tangling in her thick waves, "you would think it a sin if I touched you."

"Erik, I think," Annie sighed, her heart pounding, "as long as we were open and honest with each other, not every touch is a sin."

Erik's gaze never left hers. His body was already responding to her nearness, to her revealing words, but instead of pulling away from her, he allowed those same, feather light fingers to trace down her sides, causing her to suck in a trembling breath as he brushed against the outline of her breasts. His hands finally coming to rest on the curve of her hips, he drew her closer, groaning huskily, "You are so beautiful, Annie." With lowering lids, he allowed his lips to meet hers, indulging in the intoxicating new sensations that were coursing throughout his body, instead of trying to deny them. He kissed her languidly, searingly, as they fell back onto the furs, pulling her ever closer to him, delighting in the way her body felt pressed so tightly against his.

Annie sighed softly as she eagerly kissed him back, her tongue meeting his thrust for thrust, her teeth nibbling gently at his bottom lip. Caught up in the new sensations, she hiked one of her legs over his waist, inviting him to run his fingers along the creamy flesh on her upper thigh.

At long last, Erik and Annie broke their kiss, their sweat-dampened foreheads resting against one another's. "That was…amazing…Annie," Erik gasped, as he fought to steady his breathing.

"It…" Annie searched for words to augment Erik's statement, but finding none, she settled for simply agreeing. "It…was."

"But I…," Erik groaned, knowing they should stop, even while his body wanted so much more, "think we should try to sleep now."

"You…" Annie sighed, nodding her head, still dazed by Erik's kisses, "you are right."

Erik cradled Annie tenderly in his arms, as he whispered, "I love you, Annie," allowing his lips to place gentle kisses along her brow.

"I love you too, Erik," Annie murmured back, with a dreamy smile. "And…and never forget that I _want_ you too."

His heart thrilling at her words, Erik tucked her head under his chin, as he began to hum the tune he had written her to lull her off to sleep. And with warmth filling both their hearts, the lovers closed their eyes.

* * *

The Masked Musician and the Wild Dancing Rose had become quite an attraction at the market. Though Erik was still not fond of crowds, he found that he could cope when he was behind his mask—which he only wore to the market now, since Annie had made it quite clear that it was not needed, nor welcome at home. And when the audience would erupt in applause, Erik could feel his heart bursting with pride and love for the gorgeous young woman that graced the market stage.

Annie's beauty attracted at least as much attention from the male spectators in the crowd as

did her dancing. Show after show, a horde of men, both young and old would gather round, hoping to get an acknowledgement, or some show of favor from the beautiful dancer that had just stolen their hearts. Annie would smile, and thank them graciously for their praise, turning down many a dinner invitation, or request for private audience, claiming that the masked musician was very strict, and would not tolerate her spending too much time away from her art. In the end, she always allowed herself to be happily whisked away by the mysterious masked man who enfolded her in his arms as soon as they were out of view.

"I love you, my beautiful wild rose!" he would murmur, in the melodious, rich baritone that had overtaken the boyish timbre in his voice. And though Annie had grown taller, Erik still towered over her, causing him to have to bend low to place a tender kiss on his sweetheart's lips.

"And I love you, my Erik," she'd sigh, as she happily lifted her head to accept his affection. Though she had found Erik's soaring height to be insufferably annoying when they were younger, there was nothing she liked better now than the feeling she had of being engulfed by his arms when he hugged her.

Their embrace would linger a moment longer, Erik finding it increasingly difficult to draw their kisses to a close. At times his lips actually ached when they were apart from hers for too long. Fortunately for him, Annie didn't mind soothing his affliction, for, as she had revealed to him, she suffered from the same.

After the crowds would dissipate just a little bit, Erik and Annie would stroll, hand in hand through the stalls and shops, buying whatever supplies they needed, and sometimes simply looking in the windows of the more luxurious stores, and dreaming about some day. It was on just such an evening that Erik saw a flier in the jeweler's window announcing auditions for membership in the newly completed _Palais Garnier's Corps du Ballet_.

"Auditions are being held, Annie," Erik read, perusing the paper that he had torn down from the window. "And they are open to any and all comers."

"Erik why are you reading me this?" Annie asked, eyes narrowed in confusion.

"Because, Annie," Erik said, putting his arm around her shoulder as they walked down the alley behind the shops that led out of the market. "I think you should audition."

Annie stopped in her tracks and her eyes grew wide with surprise, as she gazed from Erik to the announcement and back to Erik again. "Erik, this is all the way in _Paris_."

"I know," he agreed. "It is to be the very center of music in that great city. They have been working on the building for years—I remember hearing about it even before I met you. I've always said you should dance on the Paris stage—like your mother before you. It is almost certain that the Garnier's Corps du Ballet will be beneath your talent, but you shall be made prima ballerina in no time. I am certain of it."

"Erik!" Annie interrupted his reverie. "Slow down! I have not even agreed to audition, and already you have me as first lady of dance!"

Erik looked at her quizzically and asked, "Well, of course you will audition! Won't you?"

Annie looked at him with an uncertain expression on her face. "Erik…Paris is so far away. I would have to leave here—our home."

"I would come with you, Annie," Erik hurriedly assured her. "I am not asking you to go to Paris alone."

"But where would we live?"

"Undoubtedly, you would be expected to live in the dormitories…"

"No," she said stubbornly, wrapping her arms around her chest as she had when she was a girl. "I will not even consider doing this if it means I have to leave you—if I have to live without you. There are things that are more important to me than the stage."

"Annie," Erik said, softly, tipping her chin up so he could look in her eyes. "I have told you time and again, you will always have me. I love you—I'm not leaving you. Ever..." And he leaned down and placed a sweet, comforting kiss on her pouting lips.

When he pulled back, Annie told him with a frown. "You will not manipulate me with your kisses, Erik, masterful though they may be!"

"Oh?" he asked with raised eyebrow, swooping down to catch her bottom lip between his teeth, giving it a gentle tug as he kissed her lips once more. "Masterful, are they?"

"Yeees," she hissed, in both irritation and pleasure. "You know they are! And wicked too."

"Oh, really?" he murmured, darkly, trailing his lips down to kiss the underside of her chin, making his way to her neck. "I find that wickedness suits me."

"Erik!" Annie admonished, pushing him a little away. "We are in public."

"Perhaps we should go home and continue this conversation in private," he suggested, placing a final, searing kiss on her lips.

"As I said before," Annie purred, when he finally pulled away. "You are _wicked_. And you _will_ not win!"

"Oh," Erik quipped, folding the paper in quarters and shoving it into his pocket, before taking her hand and beginning to lead her home. "But I will try my hardest to convince you."

Finally giggling at the evil way she could tell Erik was raising his eyebrows behind the mask, Annie told him, "Well, I am sure I will enjoy your attempts!"

"You will," Erik leaned low to whisper in her ear, sending shivers of anticipation down Annie's spine.

"Erik," Annie croaked, trying to regain a bit of her composure, for Erik's promise had sent her senses reeling. "Wait here. I…just recalled," she cleared her throat, and patted at her hair, feeling a bit flush. "That I need to… buy some soap."

Erik leaned his long body back against the shop's wall, arms folded across his chest. "Do take your time, Annie," Erik told her in a velvet voice, a knowing smirk on his lips. "I will be right here waiting."

Still flustered, Annie headed off to the general store without another word.

Erik chuckled to himself as he watched her go. He found that he quite enjoyed the ability he had to fluster Annie with a kiss. He was certainly not above using that power to get her to Paris, so she could take her rightful place on the stage.

Still lost in his thoughts, he did not hear the man approach.

"You never did make it very far, did you, freak?" asked a gravelly voice from Erik's past, yanking him out of his fantasies, as harsh reality caught up with him.

Erik's head shot up as he was met with the dank, dirty face of the money taker from the gypsy fair. Yusef sneered at him, and Erik could see several teeth missing from his foul smelling mouth.

"Yusef!" Erik declared in shock.

"Awwww, I'm touched you remember my name!" the money taker said with false sincerity. "Did you miss us after you killed the master and made off into the night?"

"Actually," Erik responded coldly, his wits beginning to return to him. "You rarely ever cross my mind."

Yusef sneered and made to grab him by the forearm, but Erik was too quick. "I'll thank you to keep your hands off of me, you miserable scum!"

"Fancy that!" Yusef chuckled wildly. "The slave calling the _master_ scum! You are not fit to lick the bottom of my boot!"

"I have no master!" Erik seethed. "I am no man's property! I have made a name for myself at this market!"

"Ahh, yes." Yusef nodded. "So you're the Masked Musician that the whole town seems to be on about. It all makes sense now. How would they feel about their beloved minstrel if they could see his face! And where's this partner of yours? The Wild Rose? I hear she's awful pretty and moves _real_ nice!" he chuckled lewdly. "Surely you wouldn't mind sharing a piece of that with an old friend now, would ya? After all, if she'd bed The Living Corpse, _I_ would be a step up."

Erik lifted the despicable man by the collar and slammed his back up against the wall he had just been leaning against, making sure that his head hit the bricks with a sickening crack. "Listen here, Yusef! You are not dealing with the frail young child I once was. Go away and forget you ever saw me. Forget about the Masked Musician, forget about the Living Corpse—and if you ever care to take another breath, forget about The Wild Rose. You are not even fit to lay eyes on her—and if I have anything to say about it, you never will."

Erik released the pudgy man's collar, once again shoving him back against the wall. Then, turning on his heels, stormed over to the General Store to meet up with Annie wisely choosing to guide her a different way home.

 **AN: Yeah, Yusef! You better stay away! Erik means business!**  
 **Well, it looks like Erik and Annie are certainly growing up! Please review and let me know what you think of how things are developing. Thanks!**


	18. Chapter 18

**AN: Again, thank you all for your reviews! Yeah, Yusef the bad penny showed up at the fair, and Erik will have to deal with that somehow. But first, things are going to heat up a little bit for Erik and Annie! (hint hint)**

CH 18

"Please, Erik," Annie said, as they reached the cave, entering their home for the night. "Are you going to tell me what's the matter?" For _something_ was obviously very wrong. Erik had met her at the general store instead of waiting for her in the little alley where she had left him. He had stood beside her, silently as she paid for her purchase, and then he had taken her by the arm, half leading, half dragging her out of the building. He had insisted on going the long way home, refusing to return to the little alley they usually used as a short cut. And then, along the way, he set a rather vigorous pace, barely speaking two words to her, his jaw held tightly shut the entire time.

Erik raked a hand through his hair and looked at Annie. He knew he had to explain. He had been acting far too erratically for her to have not noticed. But how could he tell her about the encounter with Yusef without terrifying her? How could he convince her they had to leave the home they loved?

For of course they had to leave, he thought further to himself as he began to pace the floor. He should have seen this day coming—the day that someone from the fair would find them. They were not so far away from the usual travelling routes the gypsies took. Toulouse was a well-known village—of course they would stroll the market, trying to scope out the competition. And certainly fliers advertising the renowned act of the Masked Musician and the Wild Dancing Rose would draw the gypsies' attention.

The Wild Dancing Rose. Annie! It was bad enough that Yusef had turned up like a stroke of bad luck after so many years, but hearing him refer to Annie had made Erik sick. True, the pig had only mentioned her performing name, but that had been enough to make him see red. And the insinuations he had made… Erik would gladly kill Yusef before allowing him to ever set eyes on Annie. That was why they _had_ to go.

"Erik," Annie said again, taking his hand to try to force him to look at her. "Please. Talk to me."

Erik looked in Annie's soft brown eyes, filled with so much concern. He knew she was not going to like what he had to say, but to keep his angel safe he would do it.

"Annie," he said softly, looking into her eyes. "We have to go."

Annie's eyes narrowed in confusion. "We have to _go_? We just got home, Erik. Where do we have to go?"

"We have to _leave_ , Annie," he clarified, taking a deep breath. "Leave the market. Leave here. It's time to move on."

Annie looked at him, horrified. "Move on? But _why_?" And then, a look of comprehension appearing on her face, she asked. "Is this still about Paris, Erik?"

"Well, that is a perfectly good reason to move on," he started. "You are simply wasting your talents here, when you could be gracing the finest stage in Paris." When he saw her formulating an objection, he hastily added, "But that is not the only reason!"

Erik scrambled for a justification to his rash demand. He did not want to frighten Annie, by telling her about Yusef. There had to be some other way. "The…the _men_ , Annie," he finally sputtered "—at the market. I don't like the way they look at you."

"What do you mean?" Annie asked, taken aback.

"Well it is plain to see," Erik continued, his idea gaining purchase as he went on. "That they ogle you as if you were a piece of meat."

Annie cocked her head to the side in confusion. "Erik, that is the most ridiculous thing I think I have ever heard you say! You know where my loyalties lie."

"Still," he pressed, committed now to this absurd line of reason, seeing no other path, "It is very difficult for me to watch you being so coy and flirtatious with the male clientele."

As soon as the words left Erik's mouth, he regretted them, because Annie's eyes flew open and her mouth dropped practically to the floor. "Coy and _flirtatious_ , Erik?" she hissed in shock. "I barely spare them a word of thanks, before running off to leave with the ' _Masked Musician_.' I sleep every night wrapped happily in your arms. How can you even think to call me coy and flirtatious? You know my heart belongs to you alone."

Truly penitent for his accusing words, Erik knew he had to change his tactic. "I am sorry, Annie," he said, looking down. "I know you are true to me. Still, it _is_ very difficult for me to see you surrounded by so many handsome, eligible men, knowing that you are confronted with a monster every time I remove my mask. Over and over again, I am reminded of what you _could_ have—of the type of man you could be with. And sometimes I do wonder if one day you will wake up and realize that _that_ is the type of man you deserve. And want."

Annie walked up to Erik and cupped his face in her hands, her eyes filled with tenderness and understanding. "Erik," she told him in a voice that was both gentle yet firm. "I love you. _All_ of you. And I love your face as a _part_ of you. To me, it is no hardship to look upon it. For every morning I am blessed with one of your waking smiles, or the look of love in your golden eyes and I feel that I am the luckiest woman in the universe. There is no prince, nor king in this world who could ever turn my heart away from you. I am _yours_ , Erik. Never _ever_ doubt that."

Despite the circumstances, Erik's heart melted at Annie's declaration, and when she brought his face to hers for a kiss, he did nothing to resist, allowing himself to get momentarily distracted by her warmth and softness.

When their lips parted, Erik leaned his forehead on hers, murmuring, "I love you, Annie…" in soft tones.

"I love you, Erik," she whispered. "I always will." She leaned up and placed another quick peck on his pliant lips. "But now," she said a bit more loudly, her brain obviously shifting gears, "I believe I shall indulge in a bath." And smiling at him, she disentangled herself from his embrace, and gathered a fresh dress to bring with her to the waterfall.

Erik watched her go—his heart so full of love for her at that moment that he thought it might burst. These past few years in their home had been so good for Erik and Annie. They had grown in both prosperity and love, and had truly been able to leave the hardships of their past lives behind, focusing on the happiness they knew together. It broke Erik's heart to now have to insist they leave the life and home that they had come to love. But what choice did he have? He knew that they were no longer safe. Now that Yusef had recognized him, surely he would return to the market—and probably with a band of his thugs to try to reclaim his "property." Erik knew he would be able to fight them off, for he was a man now, strong and clever—not the weak little boy they used to control. _But Annie…,_ Erik thought, feeling absolutely sick to his stomach. If Yusef ever laid a hand on Annie…

Erik's blood boiled at the very thought. No, Yusef could never lay _eyes_ on Annie, much less even one of his filthy, grimy fingers. That was why they had to leave. If he could not convince Annie of it in any other way, he would just have to tell her of Yusef's proximity—dragging up old fears. Erik hated the thought, but better old fears than new dangers.

Frustrated, Erik began to go through the bags that they had brought back with them from the market, putting things away, even as he knew it was futile, since they were going to have to leave soon. At the bottom of one of the bags, he found Annie's soap, and realized she must have forgotten it when she left for her bath.

Thinking that she might need it for washing, Erik decided to bring it to her, spending the entire walk to the bathing area pondering ways he might get Annie to agree to leave this beautiful place without having to frighten her. Erik continued on, lost in his thoughts as he was, until the loud rush of the waterfall told him he had arrived at his destination. He was about to call out to her, to tell her he had brought the soap, when he noticed that there on the ground before his feet, lay Annie's dress and shoes. Obviously, being without her soap had not been a great concern for her. Swallowing hard, Erik slowly lifted his head to look toward the waterfall, and the glorious sight he saw made him nearly drop the necessity he was carrying.

Annie was there, clad only in her shift, the pool of water covering her up to her waist. The falling water was cascading steadily over her head, wetting her hair as it spilled forward over her breasts, shielding them from his view. Her eyes were closed, as she reached up and smoothed the hair on the top of her head, and as Erik gazed upon her, he found that he had forgotten how to breathe.

It was not the first time Erik had seen Annie bathing, of course. When they were younger, and first living in the cave, they would often play in the water together, swimming and splashing and getting their clothes completely soaked. However, back then, things had been different between them—their love had been more innocent. As they grew older, and more physically drawn to one another, they had taken care to bathe alone—allowing one another some measure of privacy. That should have occurred to him when he thought to bring the soap. He was about to leave and turn back to return the way he'd come, when Annie opened her eyes.

"Erik?" she called, surprised to see him standing there by the rocky shore of the lake, a dumbfounded look upon his face.

"You, ah…" Erik choked out each word with great effort. He was finding it very difficult to speak when he could scarcely breathe. "Forgot the soap." He held the aforementioned item up for her to see, attempting a sheepish grin, but giving up that notion when he imagined how frightful he must look.

"Oh," she said, smiling. "Thank you."

He placed the soap down on the shore of the lake and turned quickly to go, but Annie stopped him. "Erik," she called out. "Don't go."

"Annie," he said, his voice scratchy and dry. "I _really_ should."

"No," she said smiling, wading closer to where he stood. Reaching up to take his hand, she whispered enticingly, "Stay with me."

Taking a deep breath, Erik nodded and muttered, "Alright," not quite looking her in the eye.

"I had hoped you'd say that," Annie chuckled as she gave his hand a hard tug, pulling him, head over heels, into the river.

"Annie!" Erik sputtered, coming back to the surface with a look of shock on his face. "What was that for?"

Annie threw her head back and laughed, thoroughly enjoying seeing Erik looking like a drowned rat. "That was to get you back for your manipulative kisses at the market!" When Erik merely narrowed his eyes at her in mock annoyance, she added, "And to show you just how much sway I hold over you when I _do_ flirt!"

"Oh really?" he asked, wiping water from his eyes, a smirk playing at his lips. "You think you hold sway over me?"

"Obviously, I do," she answered, her eyes full of mischief.

"Perhaps you only pulled me into the water because I _wanted_ to be here!" he said. "So I could do this!" He quite suddenly moved his hands in a quick arc in the water and sent a spray of droplets directly into Annie's face.

"Oh!" she squealed in delight, splashing him back. Soon the friends were playing and frolicking just as they often had of old. When the two were giggling and out of breath, Erik clasped Annie's hands, with a smile.

"Shall I leave you to finish your bath, Annie?" he asked her with a smile.

"Oh, I am mostly done," she answered.

With a giggle, Erik asked, "How could you have washed without soap?"

"Oh, I still _had_ some soap," Annie admitted sheepishly. "I only used that excuse to get away from you for a few minutes, to…calm down."

A sly smile broke over Erik's face as he remembered how flustered he'd had Annie at the market. "Ahh, yes," he responded. "As I recall, I had you quite rattled, didn't I?"

"It wasn't _that_ , Erik," Annie protested, looking down as shades of pink danced across her cheeks. "It's just that you were making quite a scene. And we were in _public_."

"I do remember you mentioning something about that." Erik nodded, placing his hands on her hips and pulling her close. "And, if I am correct, we promised to finish our _conversation_ in private." He dipped low and placed a quick kiss on her lips, before pulling away and adding, "Where I can be _much_ more persuasive." He caught her mouth with his again, kissing her long and slow.

"Erik," Annie gasped when they finally came up for air. "I…I still have to … wash my hair."

All thoughts of Yusef completely forgotten, Erik raised his eyebrow, asking her huskily, "May I help you?"

Suddenly, feeling a familiar lump in her throat, she nodded slowly and implored him, "Please."

Without a word, Erik reached over to where the soap was floating nearby. Keeping his eyes locked with Annie's, Erik moved the soap in circles in his hands, building up a frothy lather. Slowly he brought his fingers to her hair, lifting her water-laden tresses, rubbing in the slippery, gently massaging her scalp as he did so. Annie wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his chest as he worked, closing her eyes and allowing herself to revel in Erik's hypnotic touch.

The feeling of Annie's soaking wet body pressed up against him, with nothing but a thin shift to shield his eyes from the glorious view was driving Erik wild, making his trousers grow incredibly tight and uncomfortable. Still, he cherished the exquisite torture she was putting him through, thirsty only for more.

When her hair was covered in soap, Annie let her head fall back, beneath the waterfall, where, with trembling hands, Erik helped to rinse the soap out of her hair. Annie lifted her lids to look into Erik's fever bright golden eyes only to hear him whisper huskily, "Annie, I really think I should go."

"No, Erik," she murmured, her own voice thick with desire. "Please stay." And she tightened her arms around his waist, pulling him closer.

"Annie, you don't know what you are doing to me," he moaned, trying desperately to fight the fire that was raging inside him. "If you only knew the wicked urges that are coursing through my body."

Shifting her hips slightly against his, as if to show him his desires were rather obvious, she asked, "Does it feel like a fire is burning inside you, and yet you would gladly succumb to the heat if it meant another sweet kiss or one more tender touch?"

Erik nodded, sighing, "Yes."

"Does it," Annie continued, moving against him once again. "Make you feel as if you are melting deep in your core, and yet you are unbearably drawn to the flame?"

"Yes," Erik breathed, pressing his hips into Annie this time, noting her eyes growing hazy at the movement.

"As if," she continued, placing her hand on his chest, to feel his rapidly increasing heartbeat. "You are falling into an abyss, but you ache to consumed by the darkness?"

"Annie," Erik rasped, biting his bottom lip as she brushed once more against his now painful arousal. "How…how do you know?"

"Because I feel it too, Erik," Annie told him, tilting her head upwards, and drawing him down upon her lips.

Their passions exploded when their lips met, and suddenly, Erik could not get enough of her mouth, her tongue, his hands clawing at her shift, pulling her body nearer, closer, but never being able to get her close enough.

"Oh God, Annie!" he moaned, as his hand brushed past the curve of her breast flicking a hardening nipple on its way down to her waist. "You are exquisite."

"You make me feel so," she whimpered.

Nothing in the world existed for Erik except for Annie's kiss. Lifting her off her feet and carrying her out of the water, he lay her down on the loamy shore, never once breaking contact with her lips. Lowering himself down over her, his body was on fire with the new sensations that were coursing through his veins as her legs parted to cradle him, her breasts crushing against his chest, her fingernails dragging down his back.

Annie grabbed onto his shirttail and loosened it from his trousers before her fingers found their way to the buttons on the front of his shirt. Slowly, she undid every one, her hands greedily pushing the fabric apart. When she saw the marks of cruelty lashed all over his torso, she remembered that first night when she stood outside his cage and counted his scars. Now, she pulled her lips away from his mouth to kiss each one—caressing the lines with her fingers.

"If I could love you a thousand years for each one of these bands that cross your flesh," she told him breathlessly, sucking one of his taught nipples into her mouth, "Still, it would not be long enough."

With a loud groan, he grasped the curve of her hips, shifting his body so that his lips now trailed hot kisses down her neck, stopping only as he reached the rising mound of her breasts. He paused and looked in Annie's eyes as if to ask permission, since, up to this point, all of their touches and kisses had been through their clothes. When she nodded, he delicately tugged on the fabric of her shift, pushing it to rest beneath her bosom.

"Oh, Annie," he sighed, as he gazed, overcome, upon her loveliness. Tentative fingers squeezed around the fullness of her breasts, marveling at their soft weight in his hands. He outlined each sphere with soft, reverent kisses, Annie's sighs and moans golden notes in the resplendent aria that Erik was composing upon her body. As his tongue found the raised nubs in the center of one creamy globe, Annie tangled her fingers in his hair, holding his head in place.

"My God, Erik, don't stop." She pleaded, her voice weak with need. "Please never stop." With a low growl, Erik happily complied, sucking each pink pearl deeply into his mouth, nipping at them gently with his teeth.

Annie felt a sublime sweetness begin to spread through her, and she released her grasp on Erik's head, so she could work at unfastening his pants. Surprised at Annie's boldness, Erik pulled his head away from her beautiful breasts in order to gaze into her desire hazed eyes.

"Annie," he moaned, "Perhaps…" he sighed as she once again writhed beneath him, sending a thousand flames dancing across his back. "We should stop?"

"No, Erik," Annie disagreed. "We should not."

"Annie," he said, taking her arms in his, temporarily halting her progress. "Before long, I will be _unable_ to stop."

Looking directly into his eyes, Annie told him in no uncertain terms, "Erik, I don't want you to stop. _I'm yours_."

Erik dropped his mouth down upon hers hungrily, once again devouring her mouth, using trembling fingers to draw her shift up over her thighs as she continued to work on his trousers. But just as she was about to nudge his pants down over his firm buttocks, a cacophonous bang told them they were not alone.

 **AN: UGH! What a terrible moment for an interruption! Sorry about that! Do you think Erik's fears have come true? Has Yusef truly found them?**


	19. Chapter 19

CH 19

"Yusef!" Erik gasped, abruptly breaking away from Annie's embrace. He was off running in a flash, toward the cave entrance, fastening his pants as he went.

Annie sat up, dazed and in shock as Erik ran off. _"Yusef?"_ Annie muttered to herself in confusion and fear, crossing her arms over her bare breasts, as if that could protect her from the memories that came flooding back.

Yusef. The disgusting, repugnant money taker at the fair where Erik was kept caged like a wild animal. It had been years since he had crossed Annie's mind, but she could still remember the grubby fingers, the slimy tone in his voice—the leer he gave her as she entered Erik's tent. She had been a brave young girl, and she had not let him stop her from doing as she pleased. But that did not mean that her stomach didn't churn at the mention of his name.

She had heard him call Erik terrible things. She knew that he'd had a part in keeping Erik imprisoned. He had not been with the master that final, terrible night, or she might have killed him too. He would have deserved nothing less, for the crimes he helped to commit against an innocent child.

 _But, oh, the blood…_ she thought as red drops flew from the knife in her memory. A river of crimson spilled from the master's neck, his miserable life drifting away as it flowed.

A loud shout from Erik and sounds of a scuffle pulled Annie out of her macabre memory. Hurriedly adjusting her shift, soaking wet though it was, she leapt up and ran in the direction Erik had gone to see what the commotion was about. If Erik was in danger, she had to do something.

Annie rounded the corner to the entrance of the cave, expecting to see her lover embroiled in a difficult and dangerous struggle. Annie was surprised, however, to see him kneeling on the ground, hunched over, with his head hanging in his hands. His back was to her, and momentarily taken aback, Annie flashed back to the night she'd first set eyes on him, so broken, so forlorn, so…alone.

Rushing over to see if he had been hurt, Annie fell to the ground next to him, putting her hands on his trembling shoulders. "Erik are you alright?" she asked in alarm.

Startling a bit, Erik removed his hands from his face, but did not turn his head. "I am fine, Annie," he answered plainly. "It was a buck. It got inside and started knocking things over. I was able to scare it off without much trouble."

When he still did not look at her, continuing to stare off into the distance, Annie demanded, "If it was just a deer, Erik, why are you so upset? What are you not telling me? And why did you say…" she paused, swallowing hard, "that name?"

Erik exhaled deeply, knowing that there was no use keeping the truth from her any longer. Annie knew him far too well. "It's Yusef, Annie." Erik finally said, still not looking in her direction. "The money taker…from the fair…"

"I know…," Annie said impatiently. "I know. What about him?"

Swallowing, Erik continued. "I _saw_ him, Annie. At the market." Annie's sharp intake of breath told Erik the significance of his words was not lost on her. "He…remembered me." Erik informed her. "Seemed to think I was his property."

"That bastard!" Annie muttered under her breath, incensed at the audacity of the man to still consider Erik to be a slave.

"But, that's not all." Erik added, his brow knitting together. "He asked about _The Wild Dancing Rose,_ Annie. He asked about _you_." Erik said, finally pinning her with his golden gaze. "He made insinuations and suggestions…Vile ones, that I dare not repeat." Erik stopped when he saw Annie's face turn white. "Annie, if anything were to ever happen to you…"

"But nothing will, Erik," she shook her head, taking his arm and forcing herself to be brave, all the while shaking inside, knowing that Yusef was nearby. "You will protect me…"

"But, Annie," Erik looked at her, pleading. "What if he came back to the market, and brought others with him? What if they even found this place? We are not that far from the village, and the gypsies are familiar with these woods. What if they came in the night and I…I _couldn't_ protect you?"

The look of horror on his face caused tears to threaten at the corners of Annie's eyes. "Annie," Erik added. "I would _die_ if he were to hurt you. _That_ is why we have to leave. That

is why we _have_ to run."

It was like déjà vu, Annie thought, being reminded of the last time Erik was so certain they needed to run. She hadn't listened to him the last time, and just like then, with the same amount of confusion and trepidation, she heard herself asking, "But Erik, _where_ would we run?"

"We should go to Paris, Annie," Erik told her, steadily meeting her gaze.

"Oh, _Paris_ ," Annie responded, in sudden irritation. "Are we back on _that_ again? I told you, I will not live in a dormitory with a bunch of girls I do not know. I will _not_ go back to living without you. I _can_ not!"

"Annie," Erik said, shaking his head. "Paris is perfect because it is so far from here. And it is a city. The gypsies tend to stay to the woods. And yes," Erik admitted, sheepishly, "There is the matter of the Opera Garnier. I _do_ want you to audition. You _deserve_ to be on that stage, Annie."

"I just don't know, Erik," Annie said, her voice full of uncertainty.

"I won't force you, Annie," Erik finally conceded. "But I still think Paris is the ideal location to hide from Yusef. And once we are there, you can think more on whether you want to give the Garnier a chance."

Erik could tell that Annie was listening intently to what he was saying, turning his argument over in her mind.

"But Erik…" she said, forlornly, tears once again gathering in her eyes, her bottom lip trembling, "this is our _home_."

"Annie, I know you have loved our home here," he stroked her cheek gently, "and the little life we built for ourselves at the market. But we can be happy in Paris."

"I know, Erik. You are _everything_ in this world I need to be happy," Annie responded, her voice now thick with tears, "and as long as we are together, I know we will be fine."

She dissolved into sobs as Erik wrapped her tightly in his arms, stroking her hair and murmuring whispery words of love into her ear. When her sorrow was finally spent, Annie pulled her head back and dried her tears with the heels of her hands.

"Alright Erik," she said, stoically. "We should pack."

In the matter of a few short hours, the life that Erik and Annie had created for themselves in the beautiful woodland cave was reduced into the items they could fit into their knapsacks. Their cloaks wrapped around themselves, with the walking stick Erik had carved her tightly grasped in Annie's hand, the two looked back at their beloved sanctuary one final time.

"I spent the happiest time of my life here, Annie," Erik said quietly, as he held her hand, surveying the rocky walls that had witnessed their joys and laughter for the past several years, and the life giving water that had nurtured their growth in body, in spirit and in love.

"We shall take the happy times with us, Erik," Annie swore bravely, even as she inwardly felt her resolve on the verge of collapse. "For we shall be together, and that is all we truly need."

Erik gazed down smiling at the woman who had taught him the meaning of joy. "Together, we have everything," he murmured, as he gently placed a loving kiss on her lips.

And squeezing each other's hands, Erik and Annie turned to go.

It was the second time they had traveled to a new destination in the dark of night, and Annie's walking stick did indeed aid them in keeping to a sure path. This time, however, Erik's arm across her shoulder, was her true guiding force. Carefully, they made their way to a town which neighbored Toulouse, choosing not to return to their familiar marketplace for fear that they would encounter Yusef along the way. Using a bit of the money they had amassed from their routine in the square, they purchased two seats on the overnight rail to Paris. Erik's mask earned a couple of raised eyebrows, but ultimately the drowsy conductor took their tickets and allowed them to take their seats where they finally succumbed to a deep dreamless sleep, Annie's head resting on Erik's shoulder, and Erik's arm wrapped tightly around her, holding her close.

* * *

The train pulled into the station just as morning came, and the hustle and bustle of Paris was upon them. Everywhere they looked there were people. Women wrapped in daytime finery, walked with sophistication into expensive looking boutiques while men dressed in wide brimmed hats and long dark coats walked purposefully into offices to engage in the business of the day. Children with dirt on their faces, ran up and down the sidewalks, darting expertly between adults as they played. Horse-drawn carriages were everywhere, crossing one another cordially on the cobblestone streets.

Erik and Annie held tightly to one another's hands as they cautiously entered the fray.

"What do we do, Erik?" Annie asked, keeping her eye trained on those around her.

"Well," Erik answered, "I suppose the first order of business is… to find somewhere to stay."

"How are we ever going to do that, Erik?" Annie asked him, looking up into his eyes.

Erik knew that look. The crinkling at the corners of her eyes and the furrows in her brow told him she was right on the edge of a full-scale panic. Lifting her hand to his lips, he gently kissed it, before answering her question. "Together, Annie," Erik told her. "We shall do it _together_."

Annie took a deep breath and released it, letting his assurances wash over her. "And together we will be fine," she murmured.

Erik guided Annie to a nearby newsstand where he purchased a copy of the post. Their next stop was a small park, where the two huddled together, and pored over the classified section to see where there might be rooms for rent. The rental fees quoted on many of the listings made Annie balk, near panicked, again. "How are we to afford this, Erik?" she asked, certain that they would have to spend the rest of their money on a train ticket back to Toulouse.

"I will find employment, Annie," Erik assured her, though he was anything but confident himself. "Have you not noticed all of the construction sites there are around this town? Certainly they will not mind help from a man in a mask, as long as he is able bodied and ready to work. Besides," he continued, smiling and stroking her cheek. "Before long you shall be Prima Ballerina at the opera house, remember?"

Rolling her eyes, Annie shook her head. "Prima Ballerina? Really Erik?" she asked incredulously. "Are you still on about that? You promised not to force me to audition!"

"You're right," Erik nodded, reluctantly. "I apologize…"

"Besides," Annie added, "I fear you greatly overestimate my ability."

"Nonsense!" Erik countered. "You are made for the stage, Annie. It is plain as day. I am certain the talent scouts at the Opera Garnier will see it immediately."

"Well," she said firmly. "I am much more interested in finding a place to lay our heads at night than I am in dancing on the Garnier stage."

"I am interested in both," Erik retorted, looking back at the paper in his hands. "These few here—," Erik said after a moment, pointing to several of the listings. "They look promising. Affordable, at least."

"Alright," Annie said, rising from the bench, though she was not entirely convinced anything would be promising or affordable in this town. "Let's go."

After taking a moment to get their bearings, Erik and Annie were off, walking hand in hand, on their quest to find a new home.

* * *

"That vacancy was just filled," the older man said, as he shut the door in Erik's face.

It was one of the last of the affordable properties Erik had noted in the paper, but only the most recent in the list of owners who had shut the door in their faces. "We're not interested," they had heard from one landlord. "You must be mistaken," said another. "We don't rent to your kind," was a final, bold reply. They were different ways to say the same thing, each one punctuated by the slam of a door. It was beginning to look as if Erik and Annie were not to be welcomed anywhere in the city of Paris.

"We only have one more place on the list, Erik," Annie observed as they stared at the unmoving wooden door that stood before them, once a possibility, now a blockade.

"I know," Erik said, despondently.

"This next place _has_ to work."

"It will never work, Annie," Erik said, his words dripping with disgust, as he gave in to the bitterness that was beginning to build inside him, "as long as people are met with my mask. They are _afraid_ of me, Annie. They do not want a stranger in a mask living on their property. Who knows the horrors the mask might hide?"

Annie's heart hurt for Erik, for regardless of how wrong the assumptions were, Annie knew there was some truth to Erik's assessment. Erik was not known in this town as the glorious masked musician, whose mystery and drama were merely parts of his charm. Here he was simply viewed as a stranger—as different. And apparently, _different_ was something to be feared.

"Erik, let _me_ try to make the deal at the next place," she implored him. "You stay off to the side, unseen."

Feeling defeated, Erik nodded his head and silently agreed to try Annie's idea.

They walked together toward the next address, Erik hanging back at the corner, while Annie knocked on the front door.

"Good day, Madame," she said, in her most polite tones when an elderly woman opened the door. "My name is Antoinette Laramie and I am here to inquire about the apartment you have to rent."

The hunched over old woman craned her wrinkled neck, glancing past her as if she were looking for someone. "Where is your husband, Dearie?" she asked, still looking around as if a man would magically appear.

"I am unmarried, Madame," Annie told her truthfully.

"We do not rent to unmarried girls," the woman told her in no uncertain terms, starting to close the door.

"Please Madame, we are _desperate_ ," Annie put her hand on the door, to prevent her from closing it.

"I thought you said you had no husband," the old crone looked at her suspiciously.

"I do not," Annie reiterated.

"Then who is this _we_ you are talking about?" she questioned, folding her arms across her chest.

"My…my brother and me," she scrambled for an answer. "Madame, he is ill…," Annie added, hoping to play on the woman's sense of sympathy.

"No!" the woman said, pulling once again on the door. "I am not going to rent to an unmarried girl with a sick relative. Where would you even get the money to pay the rent?"

"The Opera Garnier, Madame!" Annie spat quickly, saying the first thing that came to mind. "I…I dance there. And I…"

"You do?" a male voice asked behind her. Annie whirled around to see a man standing behind her in gentleman's attire. He was a bit taller than her, and stockily built, with blond hair that framed his face in bright curls. Surprise and kindness seemed to twinkle in his clear blue eyes. "For I work there and I am certain I would have remembered you."

"Good day, Monsieur," Annie said to him as her spirit fell upon hearing the door slam behind her. "I…I…," she faltered, wanting to explain herself, but not knowing how. "I only meant that I _am_ to dance there. I…I _hope_ to…one day."

"Well," the gentleman said, smiling. "That is quite a coincidence, because, you see, I am head manager at the Opera Garnier. My name," he continued, bowing low and removing the top hat from his head, "Is Giles Giry, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle…"

"Laramie," Annie provided, a bit uncomfortably. "My name is Antoinette Laramie."

He rose back to a standing position, and said, "Have you auditioned yet for the Corps du Ballet, Mademoiselle Laramie?"

"No sir," Annie shook her head. "I have only just arrived in town, and I need to find a place to live. But I am having terrible luck."

"Well, certainly," the gentleman began, "the dormitories would be the perfect…"

"No dormitories." Annie said, a bit more loudly than necessary, seeming to take the young gentleman off guard.

Erik, watching the entire exchange from where he stood on the corner, began to grow concerned at Annie's obvious agitation—not to mention the gentleman's attention. Slowly, he began to make his way to where Annie stood talking to this… handsome stranger.

"No dormitories," Annie repeated a bit more calmly. "I must have a place of my own. It is my brother, you see…" she said, using the same excuse she had tried to use with the landlady. "He is not well, and he needs me to care for him."

Giry's forehead became knotted in concern. "Your brother is ill? Might I inquire, where are your parents?"

"They perished, sir," Annie answered, compounding the lie as she saw Erik walking toward her and the kindly gentleman. "In the same… _fire_ …that injured my brother."

"Fire?" he repeated.

"Yes, sir," she nodded. "It burned him. Terribly. On his face…"

"How awful, Mademoiselle," Giry exclaimed, aghast. "Please accept my sincere condolences."

"Thank you, Monsieur." Annie nodded, politely, as Erik reached her side. "Here's my _brother_ now, sir," she said, linking her arm in his. When she heard him choke a little she squeezed his arm tightly, hoping he would get her message that he should go along with her claim.

The gentleman looked from Annie to Erik and back again, as if he were appraising the situation. Then, nodding his head to Erik, he said, "Monsieur Laramie," in greeting.

When Annie gave Erik's arm another squeeze, he simply nodded quietly.

"Well then," Giry stated with a smile. "Your luck is about to change, Mademoiselle! I know the perfect place where you and your brother could stay. My family owns a cottage, on the outskirts of Paris. I am afraid it has not been inhabited in quite some time. I was just on my way to list it in the papers, but if you and your brother need a place to stay, then it is yours. On one condition."

Annie stared at the gentleman dumbfounded, speechless with shock. When she made no answer, Erik asked, "What is your condition, Monsieur?"

"Only that your sister agrees to follow up on her intentions of auditioning for the Corps du Ballet at her first convenience," He told Erik, cordially. "As I told Mademoiselle Laramie, I am head manager at the opera, and while I am often away from the Garnier to seek out patrons, I have been there often enough to tell you we are in need of some good dancers."

"I will definitely see to it that she keeps her promise, Monsieur…" Erik nodded, his voice trailing of, as he had not heard the gentleman's name.

"Giry," Giles said, extending his hand. "Giles Giry."

"I am Erik," Erik said, cautiously shaking his hand.

Giry lifted two fingers in the air to call over one of the carriages. "Come Monsieur and Mademoiselle Laramie," Giry said, as he held the door open and bade them enter. "Let me show you to your new home."

 **AN: Well, they are in Paris now… and it seems that they have stumbled upon a kind benefactor, with a rather familiar name… Please review to let me know what you think of this turn of events. Thank you!**


	20. Chapter 20

**AN: Sorry about not updating sooner. It has been a BUSY week!**

CH 20

"I trust you both will be comfortable here," Giles Giry said, after showing Erik and Annie around the small cottage that was to be their new home. "It comes fully furnished, with everything you see here. My great aunt, God rest her soul, lived here until her dying day, and we just haven't found a use for it since then." And then, as if as an afterthought, he added, "Oh, and all of her _personal_ effects have been removed—so you won't have to worry about disturbing anything sentimental."

"It is so quiet here," Annie said, looking out the windows at the green trees surrounding the property, "And so…" she continued, inspecting the walls covered with flowery paper, running her hand along the knitted afghan thrown over the back of a well-worn settee, "quaint. Thank you again for its use."

"It is the least I can do to help a future Garnier employee," Giles said, with a winning smile, taking Annie's hand in his and squeezing gently.

"How much?" Erik asked, his voice betraying ill humor.

"I beg your pardon?" Giles said, his eyes being drawn away from Annie's by Erik's short question. Erik stood there, arms crossed in front of his chest, jaw set indignantly, with a vicious scowl blazing in his eyes.

"How much will the monthly rent be, Monsieur Giry," Erik elaborated on his question in silken tones dripping with venom, holding Giry's gaze sharply. "We do not yet know if we can afford to live in this… _palace_ …with which you present us."

"What my _brother_ means," Annie smiled, walking to stand next to Erik and slinking her arm through his, so she could throw him a discreet elbow to the ribs if he should require it, "is that we are a bit short on funds at the moment. We want to be certain we can afford your hospitality before we get our hopes up."

A sheepish smile spread over Giles's face as he momentarily looked down to the floor, then back up at Annie. "You do not need to worry about that right now, Mademoiselle…"

"How much were you going to post it for in the paper?" Erik asked, point blank, losing his patience with this benevolent gentleman.

With a slightly agitated smile, Giles met Erik's eyes squarely as he admitted, "Monsieur, you have caught me. In truth, I was not actually going to list it in the papers. This place was the farthest thing from my mind today." Then turning back to Annie, he implored her, "Forgive my deception, Mademoiselle, but I simply could not stand to see such a lovely…" he startled a bit as he heard Erik clear his throat sharply, " _family_ in need left homeless. I only wanted to help."

"That is very kind, Monsieur Giry," Annie responded, cutting off the low growl that began to emit from Erik's throat. "But it would be wrong to stay in this cottage rent free. We appreciate your generosity, but we cannot accept your charity." And reaching out her hand, she bent to lift her satchel off the floor.

"Mademoiselle," Giles began, reaching out to stay her hand. "Do not think of it as charity. This is more of a business deal. After all, I am charged with securing investments for the Opera Garnier. And I do expect you to audition for the ballet."

Returning to her full height, Annie gave a tight smile and said, "But of course, Monsieur Giry. I am certain my brother will see to it that I make good on _that_ promise."

Giles returned her smile, but it faded from his face when Erik reached into his pocket and counted out several bills. Choosing an amount on the high end of what he and Annie had seen listed in the paper he shoved them into Giry's hand with eyes etched from stone. "There," Erik said, sharply. "That should be more than enough to cover the first month's rent."

"Yes," Giles said, a bit flabbergasted, staring down at the money in his hand. "This is…quite sufficient. Well," he said, turning toward Annie, who wore a grimace of embarrassment on her face. "I must go. I have opera business to attend to. I shall actually be out of town for the next few days, but when I return, dear lady," he said, forcing a smile, while still feeling the heat of Erik's eyes upon him, "I expect that you will be a member of the Corps du Ballet." And taking Annie's hand in his, he bid her a formal farewell by bestowing a kiss on the back of her hand. Annie only nodded in response, shocked and even more dismayed by his gesture.

When Giles turned to extend his hand to her strange "brother," Erik simply glared at Giles and said, "Goodbye, Monsieur Giry," in an icy tone.

With an awkward nod, Giles stepped through the door, which Erik was quick to close behind him.

"Well, _sister_ ," Erik said in clipped tones, storming past her without looking directly at her. "You seemed rather taken with our new landlord."

"What is that supposed to mean?" she gasped not liking his insinuation in the least.

"He kissed your hand!" he all but roared. "And you let him!"

"I did not want that, Erik." Annie protested, feeling awful that he had to witness it.

"His attentions did not _seem_ a hardship to you," Erik said, a dangerous smile plastering across his face. "You were playing the role of coquette quite nicely."

"Would you _rather_ be living on the streets, Erik?" Annie asked, in exasperation as she wiped her hand against her skirt to rid her skin of Giles's kiss.

"There would be no chance of that, _Mademoiselle Laramie!_ " Erik mocked. "Not with the benevolent and philanthropic Giles Giry to rescue you. He could never stand to see such a _lovely family_ out on the streets! Of course," his voice rose in anger as he stalked about the living room. "I really don't think he'd care one bit if _I_ were out on the streets" Erik turned and gestured to himself with his palms. "He should have been honest and said he could not stand to see such a sweet and lovely _lady_ living out on the streets, and if that meant he had to do a good turn to her _freak_ brother, then so be it! Anything to earn a spot in her favor."

"I did nothing untoward, Erik, and you know that! I was simply _polite_ to him—a trait you could do well to disply more often!" Annie shouted, outraged at his barely veiled accusations. "I was only friendly toward him for _our_ sake—in order to secure a roof over our head in this blasted city that _you_ dragged us to! And, of course, I will pay for my affability dearly, since I now have no _choice_ but to audition for the ballet—which is exactly what _you_ wanted in the first place!" With an irritated huff, she added, "I would think you'd be grateful to Giles Giry! He gave you exactly what you wanted!"

Erik stopped and stared at Annie, eyes wide and mouth agape. "Grateful, Annie?" he asked in disbelief. "I should be _grateful_ to Giles Giry?"

"Yes!" Annie shot back. "You should be!"

"Well, I suppose you're right." Erik agreed rancorously. "He has everything else I want—he might as well have my gratitude too." And turning from her, Erik stalked out of the room and up the long flight of stairs that led to the second floor.  
Annie watched him go, regretting the harsh tones she had taken with him. Feeling a knot begin to form in her stomach, she intended to give him a little time to cool down. When she heard a crash come from the floor above her, however, she realized that might not be a good idea. Running up the stairs as fast as her feet could take her, she found Erik inside one of the small bedrooms, a chair lying on its back across the room. He was standing in front of a full-length mirror, his mask on the floor next to him. His head was buried in his hands, and a low groaning sound came from his throat.

"Erik…" she said in quiet, gentle tones, as she approached him slowly.

"He is everything that I am not, Annie." Erik said thickly, as he continued to cover his eyes from his reflection in the mirror. "He is handsome, he is wealthy—and he was able to provide for you in a way that I could not."

"Erik, none of that matters…" Annie begged him to see reason, laying her hands gently over his and trying to pry them away from his face.

"It _matters_ , Annie," Erik said, flinching away from her, but removing his hands so that he could meet her eyes. "It matters to _me_." He turned back to the mirror and stared, at the twisted reflection that looked back at him. "As you said, Annie, I brought you to this _blasted city_. I wanted to give you the life you deserve. Instead, all I got was doors slammed in my face."

"I did not fare very well with that old biddy at the last house either, Erik" she reminded him.

"But you _did_ fare well with Giry," Erik spat bitterly. "He was drawn to you like a moth to a flame. And why not?"

"Erik, he told you, he sees me as a business investment."

"Annie," Erik snickered sourly. "I _know_ you are not that naïve! He sees you as an incredibly beautiful woman—one who would have caught his eye even if you couldn't dance. As it was, he is merely taking our word for your ability. He gave you a roof over your head, Annie, and very likely, he will secure for you the job of your dreams. He can give you so much, Annie—so much that I have always wanted to give you but will never be able to because of my face. I don't know what you see in me." Erik looked once more at his reflection in the mirror, before dropping his head low to his chest and saying, "I don't even know how you can bear to look at me."

Tears welling in her eyes now, Annie came up and hugged him from behind, wrapping her arms around his waist, leaning her cheek on his back. "When I look at you, Erik," Annie spoke in a firm voice, "I see the man who holds me in my sleep; who sings away my nightmares. I see the man who makes me smile, and who wipes away my tears." And shifting her head so that she could look in his eyes through the mirror, she added, "I see the man who… _fascinates_ me with his mind, enchants me with his song, and thrills me with his touch." Erik turned now, so that he could look at her as she stroked his cheek lightly with her fingertips. "I see the man I want to fall asleep beside every night, and wake up with every morning. I see the man I love—the man I will _always_ love—the man I _have_ always loved." And reaching up, she buried her fingers in his hair, as she brought his mouth to hers. Their kiss was tender, languorous and slow. And when they parted, Erik touched his forehead to hers, eyes closed, as she continued to stroke his hair.

"I'm sorry, Annie," he murmured, relishing the soothing touch of her fingertips. "I just love you so much, and I want to give you the world!"

"You _are_ my world, Erik," she whispered back. "Never forget that I love you too. So very much."

They were quiet for a few moments, until Erik's lips curled up into a smirk and asked, "Like a brother?"

Annie's eyes shot open, and she pulled back to see mischief dancing in Erik's eyes.

"Erik!" she slapped him lightly on the arm. "That is not funny! What was I supposed to say? That you were my friend? My lover? Don't you see the scandal that would have created?"

"If you were going to lie anyway," Erik asked, "why didn't you try saying I was your husband?"

The silence that hung in the room was deafening, as Annie stared at him in shock.

"What did you say, Erik?" she asked him in hollow tones when she regained her ability to speak.

Erik felt the color rise to his cheeks as he began to answer her question. "I asked why you didn't claim I was your husband—why you didn't tell the landlady and Monsieur Giry that we were married." Looking down in mortification, he said, "I'm sorry, Annie. I shouldn't have asked that. You had no reason to want people to believe that we were married."

"Erik," Annie said, her voice still thin in disbelief. "I didn't claim you were my husband, because I didn't feel I had the right—I…I didn't know if you would want me to…pretend to be your wife."

"Oh Annie," Erik said, cupping her cheek, and gazing at her adoringly. "There is nothing that could make me happier than the thought of you as my wife." Smiling at her sheepishly, he admitted, "I have often thought of us…being married one day. I…I know that is foolish," he stuttered. "I… I am sorry." He looked down in embarrassment, not able to meet her eye. "I know how you feel about husbands and marriage… you made it very clear years ago that you never wanted a husband…Just…just forget what I've said…"

Tears beginning to pool in Annie's eyes, she put a finger to Erik's lips. "Hush!" she whispered, her voice shaking with emotion.

Erik stopped his sputtering and looked at Annie expectantly.

"Yes!" Annie gushed, feeling as if her chest was about to burst with excitement.

Not quite understanding what Annie was so enthusiastically agreeing to, Erik looked at her confused. "What?"

"Yes, I'll marry you!" She shrieked, throwing her arms around him, and placing quick, excited kisses all over his cheeks and neck.

Erik felt his eyes pop open in amazement. "You will?" he gasped. "But I was so afraid you didn't want to get married. That you never wanted a husband."

"But Erik," she answered, tears of joy beginning to stream down her face. "I've _always_ wanted to be yours."

Erik felt his own eyes well up as he cupped her cheek. "Oh, Annie, you _are_ mine. And I am yours. And we will be each other's. Forever!" He pulled her back into his embrace, kissing her lips long and true. "I love you," he sighed when he pulled away, once again resting his forehead against hers.

"I love you too, Erik," Annie beamed. Yet her cheeks began to color and a feeling of embarrassment spread though her chest as she realized one very important fact.

"Oh," she muttered, looking sheepish.

"What?" Erik asked, confused in her sudden change of mood.

"Erik, I am so terribly forward," she began, looking down because she could not bear to look in his eyes. "I have said yes to being your wife, but you haven't actually asked me yet."

Erik looked at his love with shock, and realized, that, in fact, he had _not_ asked the question. He had merely stated his intentions, as if they were a foregone fact—and then he had tried to deny them! Oh this wouldn't do. This would not do at all!

Extricating himself from Annie's arms, he got down on one knee, and taking one of his beloved's precious hands in his, he made his proposal.  
"Antoinette Laramie," he began, seeing the tears spring fresh to Annie's eyes. "You have already performed a miracle by seeing past my many imperfections and falling in love with the man that lies behind them. I have no ring to offer you, Annie—no trinket with which to plight my troth. But still, I ask you now to make me the happiest man ever to live, by agreeing to be my wife."

"Erik," Annie sobbed, taking his face into her hands, "Plight your troth to me with your heart, and your smile, and your beautiful, _beautiful_ music. And I will have you and hold you, and love you forever. And I will be so _happy_ to live out the rest of my days as your wife. Always, my Erik," she vowed through tears of joy. And then, pulling him to his feet, she folded him back into her embrace, she hugged him tightly as she whispered, "I am yours, Erik. Forever, I shall be yours."

"And I am yours, my Annie," he whispered in response, squeezing her in his arms. "For the rest of my days, my heart and soul shall belong to you."

 **AN: Lots of emotions in this chapter! But yay-they're getting married! Maybe...**


	21. Chapter 21

CH 21

"I'm nervous, Erik," Annie said as they walked the distance from their little cottage to the Opera Garnier. "What if they don't like me?"

"Then they are fools," Erik responded in no uncertain terms, "And have no business running an opera house."

Annie sighed. "But if I don't get a part—if I don't get selected—will you at last drop this idea of me dancing on the stage."

"It is preposterous to believe," Erik answered, keeping his eyes trained straight ahead, his mind completely focused on the goal of Annie auditioning on the stage. "That you would not get offered a part in the _corps du ballet_. And I will never give up on the idea of you being the Garnier's Prima Ballerina."

Annie rolled her eyes with a loud huff, whispering under her breath, "Unreasonable, stubborn, arrogant…"

"I hear every word you're muttering, Annie," he said, with a slight smirk curling his lips.

"I _know_!" she retorted back.

They walked on quietly for a bit, Annie stewing in her own irritation at having to do this in the first place, while Erik tried to contain his excitement.

"You will be there, won't you?" Annie said, after a time, breaking their silence.

"Well, I cannot simply sit in the audience, Annie. How will it seem to the managers if your ill _brother,"_ Erik lingered on the word to tease her, hoping humor would make her feel a little more at ease, "lingered in the auditorium infecting the entire staff."

"I told them you had been hurt in a fire, Erik, not that you were infested with plague!" she scowled at him irritably. "But you do have a point. It might be best if I attend the audition unaccompanied. It would seem braver—make me appear more self-assured. It's just…" Annie's voice trailed off, as an uncertain look entered her eyes. "I…just…"

Erik stopped walking and turned to her. Taking Annie's face in his hands, he looked directly into her eyes as he vowed, "You will not be alone, my love. Your fiancé will be there with you." And leaning his head low, he met her lips with his own in a gentle, reassuring kiss.

Annie's worries melted and a thrill of excitement filled her chest as Erik kissed her, but even more so at hearing him use the word that now defined their new bond. She could hardly believe that it was true, but Erik was indeed her fiancé—as she was his. And they were to be married!

Of course, Annie did not know _when_ the blessed occasion would take place. As soon as the matter had been decided the previous evening, she had been ready to rush back into town to find a preacher who would do the job right then and there. She had been so ready to be Erik's wife. But Erik, given a bit more to propriety than she was, insisted that they exercise some patience.

"Annie, I cannot wait to marry you either," he'd told her, as they snuggled together in front of the fireplace, "but I do not want this to be a hasty affair." Stroking her hair, he had continued, "I want to give you the wedding you deserve—with a long white gown, flowers for your hair, and bands of gold on both of our fingers, to bind us together for eternity."

"Erik," she'd gazed into his golden eyes, glowing now with the fire's light, as she'd twirled a lock of his hair around her fingers. "We are already bound for all time. Our _spirits_ are forever connected. I need no ring to circle my finger when I can already feel your love encircling my heart."

"Annie, I know you don't need these things, but I want to be able to give them to you none the less. I want to take care of you, Annie—to love you and provide for you, and to be all the things that a husband _should_ be. As it is," he'd huffed, "I cannot even give you a name, since mine was never revealed to me."

Annie had watched as Erik's vexation grew. Lifting a finger to his lips for the second time that day, she'd gently admonished him. "Erik, hush," she said gently. "I already have a name, and I would be honored to share it with you, when the time has come to say our vows. For I know my father would have been proud beyond words to have been able to call you son."

And as their eyes had closed, words were replaced with gentle sighs and gasps of delight mingling with the crackling of the flames, as they kissed and cuddled until they finally succumbed to sleep by the last of the firelight's glow.

Erik broke the spell of her delicious memory when he parted his lips from hers, ending their kiss. Suddenly, Annie was back in the present moment, where auditions and not wedding plans, were the order of the day. "I promise I will not leave you alone, Annie," Erik reiterated his vow from a moment earlier. "But I will have to find a way to stay out of sight.

Annie smiled, remembering all their games of hide and seek as children, when Erik would simply vanish from sight until he wanted to be found. Grasping his hand in hers, Annie smiled at Erik as they continued on their way, saying, "I am sure you'll think of something, dear _brother_!"

* * *

Erik left Annie with a kiss on the corner of Rue Scribe and let her enter the majestic opera house first, the stone spirits of song and dance guiding her way. After a few moments, he pulled the brim of his black hat low over his face, to obscure his mask, and pulled his cloak more tightly around himself. And then he too entered the fray.

The opera house was a flurry of activity, with auditions being held for all performers, not only dancers. Office types scurried around, trying to smooth out behind the scenes details of the fast approaching opening night, while painters and construction workers put finishing touches on the luxurious details of the resplendent interior.

The foyer of the Garnier was as opulent as he had heard, with a mighty grand staircase made of marble and gilded statues holding decadent candelabras that shed light to glow on every shining surface. Erik took a minute to marvel at the exquisite architecture, making several mental notes of things he wanted to explore more fully on his next visit. Today was not about explorations, ho wever, and he quickly scanned the room for a spot that would give him an inconspicuous view of the auditorium's stage.

When a number of workers began to ascend the side staircase, Erik blended into the group. Keeping his head low, he followed them up the stairs, before turning down a side corridor, full of dark walnut doors, and continuing on as if it led to the location of some pressing matter of business.

Once the others were out of sight, Erik took a closer look at one of the doors. A small plaque numbered the door as _1_ , and peering through the little round window which was cut at about eye level, he could dimly see a view of the inside of the auditorium. Thinking it might be the perfect place to hide and discreetly watch Annie's audition, he turning its handle, but found it locked. Erik approached the next door, marked 3, and discovered the same—that it afforded a view of the stage, but it was also locked.

When he tried the next door however, the one marked 5, Erik was relieved to feel it swing open for him. Checking to be certain that he was unobserved, he quickly slipped inside, closing the door soundlessly behind him, making sure to pull the latch.

He was in one of the opera's luxurious private boxes. The walls were covered with red brocade, a curtain of scarlet velvet trimmed with gold fringe framing the view of the stage. Erik was filled with glee to realize he had once again found the ideal hiding spot! All he had to do was creep behind the curtain, and he would have the perfect view of the stage to watch Annie dance—with no one being the wiser.

Erik had to wait patiently in his box as several other performers auditioned before it was Annie's turn. He knew that she was most likely in a practice room, doing stretches and exercises to make her body limber for the dance. Erik had been witness to her doing these from time to time back at the cave, and he could not prevent his body from shivering in response to the remembered vision of Annie spread into a split on the ground. Oh, the delights and temptations of being in love with a dancer!

Once he had taken a deep breath to expel the tantalizing memory, Erik began to pay attention to the other candidates, in the hopes of distracting his mind from his lovely Annie. What he saw appalled him. Many of the so-called dancers were graceless, clumsy oafs, and Erik was fairly certain that the art of the dance was actually quite hazardous to their health. The singers fared no better, with one of the sopranos actually causing Erik to cover his ears to shield from the cacophony. Even the orchestra was woefully out of tune. Was this truly what passed for talent in Paris ? If so, Erik longed to return to the woods where subtle bird song would wake them from their slumber and sunlight would elegantly twist and sway through the branches of the trees.

Finally, it was Annie's turn to take the stage. She stood there, in front of the enormous red curtain, wearing a borrowed satin leotard and ballet skirt. The sleeveless bodice exposed the delicate grace of her long neck and arms, with the diaphanous gauzy skirt leaving her looking positively ethereal. In that moment, Erik was struck dumb by her exquisite beauty, and he could hardly believe she was his. That angel on the stage had agreed to be his wife, and somehow the abused, neglected, deformed little boy had become the luckiest man alive!

Suddenly, Erik felt abject terror wash over him. What if the horrible musicians proved themselves inept at keeping a beat, therefore throwing Annie off her routine? What if the casting directors, already so mentally exhausted from the string of horrible acts that had come before her did not pay her enough attention, simply lumping her in with the rest of the dancers? What if things, for some reason, did not go well for Annie, and he had dragged her here, against her will, for no good reason? Erik felt his throat go dry and his heart clench tightly in his chest.

But Annie held her head high, and pleasant little grin graced her lips. When the music started, she launched into her dance effortlessly, elegantly, and with such grace of movement, that Erik heard the ambient chatter in the auditorium hush. All eyes were on Annie, as they let her dance for far longer than the other candidates. When at last her routine was complete, the casting directors leapt to their feet, along with the musicians and gave her a round of thunderous applause.

Erik felt the tears wetting his face before he actually realized he was crying. Annie was perfection—exactly as he knew she would be. And now, as he watched a relieved smile break across her features, he also saw her eyes begin to dart all around the auditorium. He knew she was looking for him, so Erik stepped a bit outside the curtain to show her he had kept his promise. When she met his gaze, he could see a sparkle in her eyes and held his hand over his heart to indicate that she had done well. "Brava!" he sent a little velvety whisper directly to her ear and smiled when he saw her shudder in response.

When the applause had died down, Erik heard one of the casting directors begin to speak. He trained his ear to listen to what was being said.

"…superb performance, Mademoiselle Laramie! We simply must have you as a member of the _Corps du Ballet_ here at the Garnier. Come," he said, rising from his seat. "Let us go back to the manager's office so that we can sign some papers and get you started right away, shall we?"

Annie glanced in Erik's direction before giving the director her answer.

"Go, Annie," he murmured, throwing his voice so that he knew she could hear him. "And when you are done, meet me on the second floor. I am in Box 5."

With an almost imperceptible nod, Annie smiled politely at the director and said, "Certainly, Monsieur." And with a final glance toward Box 5, Annie walked gracefully off the stage.

* * *

Erik felt like he was caged once again. He slunk to the back of box 5, pulling the curtain that separated its luxurious entrance from the seating area, making certain that the curtain obscuring the little rounded window on the door was pulled as well. It was here, in this hidden space, that he paced back and forth, impatient for Annie to arrive.

He had wanted Annie to meet him here, so that they could be certain to find one another in the throng of people milling about the opera house, but now, the waiting was driving him insane. He longed desperately to take her in his arms and tell her again and again how wonderful her performance had been. And each minute that ticked by before she returned was absolute torture.

Finally, Erik heard a rustling outside the box, and pulled the curtain almost imperceptibly away from the window. When he saw Annie standing there, he immediately undid the latch and opened the door just before she could knock.

"Erik!" she began with a smile. "I'm sorry it took me so long. I had to change and then I couldn't find the…"

Erik grabbed her hand and quickly yanked her into the box placing his hand on the back of her head to silence her with a deep and passionate kiss. He used his foot to kick the door closed while his hand was busy burying itself in Annie's hair. When the lock was once again engaged, he wrapped his other arm around her and crushed her to him as he continued to plunder her lips with his.

"You were magnificent!" he growled in her ear, after coming up for air, all the while trailing heated kisses down her long, slender throat. "Exquisite. Delicious. In fact," he murmured, giving the sensitive skin where her neck met her shoulders a little nip, "you taste divine!"

Annie gasped at Erik's sudden amorous assault, relishing the flames he was quickly igniting within her. "Oh Erik," she moaned. "You are exhilarating."

"Am I?" he asked, tracing his hand down the curve of her side, "As exhilarating as dancing on the stage, and enchanting the directors with your ethereal elegance and grace?" He placed his hands on her bottom, and lifted her to sit on the little ledge that was attached to the wall in the entryway of the box standing between her splayed legs. Behind the ledge was a little mirror—presumably for some high society lady to do her makeup, or fix her hair. But right now, Annie leaned her head back against it, her own hair becoming a tangled mess, as Erik's hands roamed the outlines of her curves and made her mewl with delight.

"Erik, you are far more thrilling than the stage could ever be!" Her declaration ended on a gasp as Erik cupped his hand around her breast. "The things you do to me," she whimpered when he found her nipple beneath the fabric of her dress and began to squeeze.

"Oh, my dancing angel," he purred, as he put an arm around her waist and drew her closer to him, so that there was no mistaking how very much he desired her at that moment. "The things I _want_ to do to you!" he rumbled, grinding his arousal against her. "I could take you right here. Right now."

"Oh Erik," Annie sighed, as she felt that familiar, blessed heat begin to spread through her core, "Please do. _Please_ take me."

Erik's mouth dipped low, and he hungrily kissed her breasts, shoving the neckline of her dress lower to allow him better access. He seriously considered doing exactly what Annie had just given him permission to do. For all of their love for one another, they had never actually fully given in to their desires. Oh, they had tasted bits and pieces of the pleasures that would come with consummation, and it seemed that every time they did, they hungered for a greater and greater portion. But Erik had always wanted their first foray into lovemaking to be special, so they had been satisfied with fevered kisses and tantalizing caresses.

Seeing Annie triumph on the stage, however, had made Erik's appetite voracious, and he felt as if he could scarcely exist another minute without being united with Annie's sweet, sweet flesh. However, he had fantasized of gently taking Annie's innocence on a bed strewn with rose petals, while simultaneously giving her his, as he gazed into the candlelight glowing in her eyes. Could he really relinquish that dream and tear her virtue from her selfishly on a cramped ledge pinned up against a wall?

"Annie," he said, still kissing her, but more gently now to slow the pace, and calm his ardor. "Not like this. You deserve to be pampered on a bed of roses—their velvet petals tickling your skin, their fragrant aroma sweetening the air around you."

"Erik," Annie murmured, arching against him, to show that she wasn't exactly in the mood to slow down. "You have so many ideas of what I deserve." She snaked her hand down between them, finding the protrusion in Erik's trousers and giving it a good, firm squeeze. "But I know exactly what I want and need!"

When Annie touched him, he saw stars exploding behind his eyes and the roar that spilled out of his mouth was perhaps louder than it should have been, but it could not be helped. He kissed her again, devouring her lips, while she continued to stroke him through his pants. When the sensations became so great that Erik began to feel slightly lightheaded, he placed his hand on the wall behind him, just above the mirror, for balance. But instead, of steadying himself, the world gave sway, and he heard Annie emit a little yelp as they both began to fall.

 **AN: Lots of excitement in this chapter! And I think they may have just made a very important discovery! Please review and let me know what you think!**


	22. Chapter 22

**AN: This is a chapter of discoveries. On multiple fronts. I warn you things get kind of passionate between E/A in this chapter-and some of you might hate me by the end of it. **biting fingers nervously...****

CH 22

Erik and Annie landed in a tangle of limbs on the hard floor below, surrounded, on three sides, by darkness.

"Are you alright, Annie?" Erik asked, as his hands came up to rest on her upper arms, his eyes squinting to check her for injuries in the darkness that now enveloped them.

"Yes," Annie nodded slowly, propping herself up on her elbows. "I'm fine. Erik, what…" she questioned, her eyes darting around in confusion, "happened?"

"I don't know," he told her truthfully, as he too began to take in their surroundings.

It was difficult to ascertain what exactly those surroundings were with the scant illumination that was present. Erik gently extricated himself from Annie's arms, once he was sure she would not fall back and hit her head on the floor, so that he could get a better look.

They were in what appeared to be a hallway—narrow and dark. Erik lifted his hand and ran a finger down one of the walls, finding it unfinished and rough to the touch—a stark contrast to the opulent opera box they had just occupied. Turning to look behind him, he noticed where the small sliver of light was filtering in. The wall there was turned slightly in on an angle—almost as if it were a door, slightly ajar.

Leaning down to lend Annie a hand, Erik pulled her to her feet before motioning for her to remain silent with a finger to his lips. He kept her behind him as he gingerly stepped toward the opening they had apparently fallen through. Carefully, Erik touched the wall, only to find that it moved forward with ease, narrowing the already slight gap and diminishing the feeble light source they had. Quickly, he shoved his hand into the converging chasm, and halted the wall's motion. He then hurriedly pulled it back toward the little corridor in which they stood.

The lantern that had illuminated box 5 still glowed bright, offering them a better view of the threshold that lead from the opulent box to the stark cavern. The mirror and shelf that Erik had been pressing Annie against occupied the inner portion while there appeared to be nothing lining the other side.

"We're in a secret passage, Annie," Erik exclaimed in breathless wonder, as he walked a few steps back into Box 5, with Annie close behind. He stared at the wall with the mirror, mentally running through the seconds just before he and Annie had fallen. They had been right here—Annie perched upon the shelf as she'd stirred Erik's passions to a fevered pitch. He had started to feel dizzy with desire and had placed a hand above the mirror for balance.

Erik positioned himself precisely where he'd been standing when he had been locked in Annie's embrace. Reaching up to run his hand along the wall above the mirror's frame, he found the exact spot where his fingers had landed. He felt a slight, almost imperceptible protrusion—one that was easily hidden from sight by the raised pattern in the brocade. Applying gentle pressure, Erik heard a quiet click, and he felt the bump give way as the wall began to close, once again concealing the dark passageway from view.

Excitement bubbled in his chest as he turned to Annie who was scrambling out of the path of the moving wall so she was not crushed when it swung all the way shut.

"Erik, what…" Annie began. She was standing closely behind him, holding onto one of his hands and leaning into his back as she stared at what now looked like any other wall in any other opera box.

"Behold. . .," Erik cut her off in a voice that barely contained his excitement, as he pressed what he now knew was a tiny lever above the mirror. The same quiet click sounded and the wall once again moved soundlessly inward to reveal the dark passage into which they had just fallen.

"What on earth?" Annie demanded, as she saw the wall give way to the narrow hallway.

"Charles Garnier is a genius!" he declared.

"I don't…" Annie shook her head. "I don't understand."

"I remember, Annie, hearing about strange things happening during the building of the opera house." Erik exclaimed, staring into the passage with a gleam in his eyes. "Construction took almost fourteen years! And there were numerous stoppages because of the war. They used this building, in its unfinished state, as a warehouse and a hospital and…" Erik paused, his eyes shining as he considered the vast possibilities that might lay hidden behind the known walls of the opera house. "Who knows what else?"

Reaching over and lifting the lantern off the opposite wall, Erik grasped Annie's hand with his, pulling her enthusiastically toward the passage.

"Erik," Annie asked him, slightly alarmed. "What are you doing?"

Erik turned to look at Annie with that familiar adventurous gleam in his eyes. "We're going to explore, of course!"

"What?" Annie exclaimed. "No!"

Erik wrinkled his eyes at her hesitation. "Annie, where's your sense of adventure?"

"I used up quite a bit of it auditioning before the managers!" Annie retorted. "I think I've had quite enough adventure for one day. I just gained employment here, Erik. I don't want to do anything to jeopardize it so quickly!" And then, her voice softening, she added, "I just want to go back to the cottage and spend my evening alone with you."

Erik watched a smile spread across Annie's face, as her fingers trailed gently across his chest, reigniting the inferno she had recently caused to rage through him. He inwardly cursed his selfishness at wanting to immediately explore the passageway. This was Annie's day to celebrate.

Squeezing the hand that held hers, he replaced the lantern on its hook. Using his now free fingers to trace the contours of Annie's cheek, Erik whispered, "That sounds like a wonderful plan, my love. Our explorations can wait for another time." And lowering his face to hers, his lips met hers in a tender kiss. "I am so proud of you, Annie."

Their lips moved gently together, seeking and finding the love and joy that they could only know with each other. When finally they shuddered apart, resting their foreheads together, Annie murmured in a low voice, "Erik, take me home."

With a final sweet kiss, Erik once again pressed the small lever on the wall and watched it swing back into position. Turning towards the door that exited the box, he glanced out the small rounded window searching for signs of anyone passing by. When he was confident that the corridor was empty, he gently opened it, extinguishing the lantern before they turned to go. Then, with Annie exiting first and getting a little bit ahead of him, Erik and Annie took their leave.

* * *

It was a long walk back to their little cottage, and the chill of the early spring evening prickled Annie's skin. It was much colder here in Paris than it had been in the South, and Annie longed for the milder days in the woods surrounding their cave. A twinge of regret for their little home in the wilderness nipped at her heart, but when Erik's thumb began to swirl gentle circles on the palm of her hand, she was reminded that she had not left home behind. Erik was her home, because Erik was her heart. She knew that with him, she had everything. And so, resting her head against his shoulder, they continued on their way.

Back at the little house, Erik helped Annie off with her cloak and she immediately began rubbing the lingering iciness out of her upper arms.

"Are you cold, my rose?" Erik asked her with a lazy smile.

"A little," she nodded.

"Well," Erik ran a finger lovingly down her cheek, "Why don't you go into the kitchen and make us some tea, and I shall build a roaring fire to chase away the chill."

"I like that idea, Erik," she flashed him a sweet smile and turned to stroll into the kitchen.

As Annie set the pot of water to boil, thoughts of the audition swirled in her head—the nerves, the excitement, the thrill of the adrenaline pumping through her body, propelling her to perform the moves of the dance, without even thinking. _Is that how you felt, mother?_ she wondered while waiting for the water to roll and bubble. _Did it all slip away for you too? The nerves, the doubts, the fear? Were you left with nothing but the dance?_ She knew her mother had performed on the stage in Paris long before the Garnier had been built, and long before she had been born. But her mother had moved on from those days. She'd seemed completely contented to simply raise her daughter and dance away the evening in her husband's arms.

Annie smiled as she poured the water and allowed the tea to steep. She thought of the joy on her mother's face as her father held her close. Even as a child, Annie could see the adoration in her mother's eyes, and the flush on her cheeks as her father whirled her around their sitting room. They would laugh and laugh, and then he would hug her close to him, squeezing her tight before letting her out of his arms.

Her parents had been so in love—so happy and content in their life together. It pained Annie to know the tragic ending, but while it lasted, Annie had witnessed the beauty of true love. She was so grateful for that opportunity, because now she recognized it as she felt it with Erik.

 _You would love him, mother_ , she thought to herself, as she remembered that moment when she'd heard his golden whisper in her ear. That breathy "Brava," had sent a greater thrill through her body than any amount of applause ever could. _I love him, mother._

At that moment, she felt his strong arms encircle her waist from behind, and she leaned back into his embrace as warmth filled her soul. _This is so right, mother. He is so right._

"The fire is blazing, my love," Erik murmured in her ear, as he placed a gentle kiss on her cheek. "But my arms were cold without you."

Feeling her tummy flutter at his words, Annie forgot the tea as she turned in his arms and tilted her face up to kiss his lips tenderly. When they separated, Annie took Erik's hands, and pulled him toward the sitting room.

"Dance with me, Erik," she asked, with a gleam in her eye.

Erik chucked softly at her request, as he followed her back to the fire. "Isn't it usually my job to provide the music for your dance?"

"I don't need music, Erik," Annie informed him, her eyes never faltering from his gaze. "All I need is you."

Erik chuckled a bit to himself, "I've never really danced before, Annie. You know that. I don't know what I'm doing."

Annie beamed up at him. "It's alright Erik. I'm here. I'll help you."

When they were in the middle of the floor, in front of the fireplace, Annie took Erik's free hand and placed it on her waist, snaking her own to set upon his shoulder. Their joined hands she rested on Erik's chest, enjoying the look of wonder on his face as she positioned them for the dance. She began to hum the sweet melody of the song he had written for her, and slowly they began to move.

Erik possessed a natural grace and elegance that could make the greatest of dancers envious. His hold on her waist never faltered, as he followed her lead, and they glided in circles across the floor. The glow in his golden eyes absolutely captivated her, and when he smiled at her, she was reminded, once again, of the joy her mother had felt as she danced with her father all those years ago. Annie felt it too. Her love for Erik was everything. And there could be no greater happiness—no greater bliss—than simply being in his arms.

Before long, she found that she'd stopped humming, and though they still movede together their dance had slowed. She gazed up into his golden eyes and sighed as she whispered, "I love you, Erik," and her own eyes fluttered closed, as he bent down for a kiss.

Erik's kiss was tender and gentle, but Annie still felt like she was melting. Liquid heat, like molten lava spread from her core to her belly and out to her limbs, and she was intoxicated by the sweetness she drank from his lips. As he pulled her closer, more tightly against him,ehimhimhim Erik's name left Annie's lips in a strangled sigh.

Erik moaned then, and she felt his tongue tease her lips apart, making her legs weaken. Erik must have sensed it as he deepened their kiss, because within moments, he was lowering them to the floor, laying them down on the rug before the fireplace. He momentarily broke their kiss, using gentle fingers to wisp away a curl away from her eyes. Gazing at her with complete adoration, he whispered, "I love you, Annie. My dancer," he purred, kissing her again to punctuate each word. "My wild rose. My… _future bride_."

Annie felt her heart thrill at his final word. "Of all of those titles," Annie buried her hand in his hair, her fingers tangling with his soft tresses, as she smiled, "I like bride the best."

Erik smiled against her lips as he leaned in for another quick kiss. "I cannot wait until that day when you are truly mine."

"I am already yours, Erik," she vowed, with a smile. "I have _always_ been yours."

"You are _so_ beautiful, Annie," he whispered thickly, as emotion began to cloud his voice. "Inside and out."

Annie reached forward and gently cupped his deformed cheek with her hand before whispering, "So are you."

Erik's heart swelled with love and joy at her declaration, and he brought his mouth to hers, once again, losing himself in another delicious kiss. He hardly noticed when Annie unfastened the buttons on his shirt, until she was placing kiss after fevered kiss on the expanse of his flesh, teasing the hardened pebbles on either side of his chest with flicks of her tongue. Erik moaned in delight as her mouth lavished him with attention, and his hands trembled as he worked at the ties of her dress so that he could do the same. When he had disposed of her bodice, Erik trailed adoring lips down the creamy skin of her neck and shoulders, before lowering his head to her breast.

"Oh, Erik," Annie moaned breathlessly, "this is heaven."

"You are my heaven," he murmured, still kissing her breast while his hand disappeared beneath her skirts, to bestow a searing caress on her inner thighs.

Annie felt a tremor run throughout her body as his fingers crept closer to the apex between her legs. "Oh, my _Erik_ ," she practically sobbed at the intense sensations that were flowing through her.

"I _am_ your Erik," he groaned in response, as he felt his trousers growing tighter at the perfect sounds that were coming from her mouth. "Forever your Erik."

Annie suddenly reached for Erik's face to turn it toward her. "I am ready, Erik," she told him seriously, even as a smile began to spread over her lips.

"Ready for what, my darling?" Erik asked her, happiness playing at the corner of his own lips at the sight of her joy.

"I am ready," Annie said, her gaze never faltering, "for you to join us, Erik. I want to be one with you."

Erik stared at her a moment, as the breath left his lungs. He was completely stunned, though he supposed he shouldn't have been. After all, this was the natural path for their kisses and their touches to take. Hadn't he expressed his own readiness when he had removed her bodice, craving a closer contact with her sweet flesh? The truth was that he'd been ready to be one with her for months, and had, in fact, dreamed about it countless times as he held her close to him in the night. The pleasures they had already tasted, he knew, would fade in comparison to that moment when their bodies became one, finally consummating what had been nearly a lifetime of love between them. But was it right?

Erik searched Annie's eyes, and found his answer in the perfect sincerity and love he saw in her gaze. Nothing in the world could possibly be _more_ right.

His hands once again shaking, he reached out for her face, caressing her cheeks, and tracing her lips before saying, "Annie, I don't exactly know how to do this."

"I know that, Erik. I don't know either," Annie admitted, capturing his hand with hers and placing tiny kisses on his fingers. "But I do know that I _ache_ for you."

Though he did not believe it possible, Erik felt himself fall more deeply in love with her at her simple confession. "I ache for you too, my love," he moaned, as pulled himself up to stand at his full height, reaching out a hand to bring her with him.

They stared at each other a moment, before Erik once again reached for Annie's dress. With a fumbling effort, he managed to remove the skirt as he had the bodice. When she stood before him clad only in her shift, he leaned down for a slow, languorous kiss. Annie worked on the fastenings of Erik's trousers, while arms and lips mingled and made fevered journeys across expanses of heated flesh, a symphony of pleasured cries swirling about them.

Once Annie had finally divested Erik of his trousers, they ended their kiss to gaze deeply into each other's eyes. Standing naked before Annie, who was clad only in her shift, Erik rumbled, "I love you," as he took the light material of her shift in his hands and lifted it slowly over her head.

His eyes never leaving hers, they lowered themselves once more to the rug, Erik placing his body between her legs. When she nodded at him, he closed his eyes and kissed her lips as he pushed himself forward and into her core.

Pleasure more intense than he thought possible exploded through his body, as Erik released a strangled cry. His passion poured out of him and into her as colored lights swirled around behind his eyes. He was vaguely aware that this was all happening too fast, but there was nothing to be done. His response to her was immediate, unbridled, and the most visceral thing he had ever known.

The tiniest of muffled whimpers roused him out of his euphoria, and he slowly opened his eyes. The world crashed down around him when he saw an unmistakable grimace of pain etched on Annie's beautiful face. Wetness pooled in her eyes, with a solitary tear escaping and trailing down her cheek. When she saw him looking at her, she tried to smile.

"Oh my God!" Erik gasped, quickly shrinking away from her in horror. "What have I done?"

"Erik," Annie sat up and reached for him, instinctively trying to comfort him. "You did nothing I didn't ask you to do."

"I _hurt_ you Annie," he shrieked, frantically raking his hand through his hair, his eyes darting across her form desperately. When his gaze fell on the space where he had so recently lain, he sobbed, "You're bleeding."

Annie gazed down and her eyes widened when she saw the red liquid that was indeed staining her inner thighs and just beginning to creep down to blend into the rug. She opened her mouth to speak, but found herself struck dumb by the fact that this act, which had been so very much desired and so deeply craved, was not at all what she had expected. The tearing and burning sensations she'd experienced when Erik had joined them, had in no way resembled the heat of the desire his touch always incited within her. The contrast had been shocking.

"I am a monster, Annie," Erik's keening wail broke through her stupor, as he sat there, curled in on himself, sobbing. He huddled away from her, shaking with the horror that had rushed in to replace his desire. "An abomination, a barbarian, a beast."

"No, Erik," Annie said softly, pulling herself over to him. "You're not." She reached up and placed a comforting hand on his back, but he flinched away from her.

"Don't you see what I did to you?" The tears rolled freely down his cheeks, as he railed against the evils he had done. "I _damaged_ you, Annie," he moaned through sobs. "I swore to protect you with my life! I vowed that no harm would ever come to even a single hair on your head. And _I_ damaged you. I hurt you. All for my own wicked pleasure. It is as my mother always said. I destroy all that is good."

Annie felt tears spring to her own eyes at his self-destructive words. She shook her head, but still Erik went on.

"And now, I've made you cry."

"I am crying, Erik," Annie said to him, her voice thick with her tears, "Because of the damage you do to yourself with your mind and with your words—not to any imagined slight to me."

"How can you say I imagined it?" Erik asked her incredulously. "I saw the pain spread across your features. I saw the blood. How can you deny it?"

"I…" again, Annie was at a loss for words. "I cannot deny that …it…was uncomfortable…"

Erik shut his eyes and grimaced in mortification at her words. Again, Annie reached out to rub his back, but when she felt him tense, she commanded, "Erik, do not pull away from me! That hurts me more than anything else ever can."

Erik did not pull away and he slowly turned his face to meet her gaze. "How can you want me anywhere near you?"

Annie shook her head in disbelief that he was asking that question. "I _love_ you, Erik."

"Still?" he asked her with raised eyebrows.

"Forever," she sobbed as she pulled him into an embrace.

Erik's head rested tearfully on Annie's chest, and she held him there, close to her heart, while she placed quick gentle kisses to the top of his hair. After a few moments, Erik felt stronger, and he lifted his face to look in her eyes. "I am so sorry, Annie."

"Erik," Annie said, still at a loss over the whole experience. "We didn't know. We knew what we wanted, but neither of us knew what to expect."

"I cannot hurt you again, Annie." Erik vowed. "I _will_ not."

Annie nodded, "I know, Erik. You never wanted to hurt me in the first place."

"Never, my love." He shook his head. "And never again."

Annie felt Erik pull her close again, and wrap her tightly in his arms. She truly did not understand what had happened, and why the pain had seared through her body at his presence. But she knew it had not been his intention, and she knew he was completely destroyed by the fact that it had happened. So she tightened her own arms around him and held him until, at length, he pulled away.

"We…" Erik said, looking suddenly bashful, averting his eyes from her direction. "Should probably get dressed, Annie."

"Yes, Erik," Annie said quietly. "We probably should." And pulling herself away from him, she reached out for her shift. _It was supposed to be good between us, mother,_ she thought, _It was supposed to be right._ She couldn't help but wonder why—if it was supposed to be good and right—they were left with such sorrow and such shame.

 **AN: Well, do you hate me? ha ha. Trust me-E/A have a LONG road ahead of them...they** ** _will_** **have better times, but I think that every setback they face, also helps them grow... And they ARE very young. (I imagine them around 17/18 at most here...) It couldn't be ALL roses and dancing for them, because then Annie would never grown into the stern Madame GIRY and there never would have been the whole business with Christine. Hmmm...**

 **Hang in there...**


	23. Chapter 23

CH 23:

Annie lay in Erik's arms that night—just like she always did—and he held her tightly against him. But they each wore more clothing than strictly necessary for sleep, and their kiss goodnight was decidedly more reserved than their kisses had been in quite a while. Uncharacteristically, Erik succumbed to sleep before Annie did. The emotional exhaustion of the day must have been taking its toll on him, Annie thought, as she lay there staring up at the ceiling, wishing for the oblivion that would not claim her.

It was the first night they had ever spent together in a real bed. Prior to this, they had always slept either on the ground, in their cave, or, as was the case the night before, cuddling in front of the fire. Annie had once dreamed that spending the night in bed with the man she would love for the rest of her life would have somehow been different.

 _The rest of her life_. Had it really only been one night since she'd promised to become Erik's wife? So much had happened between them since then, that she could hardly believe scarcely twenty-four hours had passed. Annie turned her head sideways to look at her lover's uncovered face, still somewhat tense, even in his slumber. She traced a finger gently down his cheek, wishing she could erase the stress and worry she saw there. "Oh Erik," she muttered, brushing back one of his beautiful locks of black hair. "I'm sorry."

Their attempt at joining had been a disaster that Annie still did not quite understand. She had wanted it so much—and clearly so had Erik. All of their kisses and touches that had led up to that fateful moment had yielded so much pleasure, and her body absolutely cried out for his. But when they were one, the pain had been nearly unbearable—burning and searing, and in no way what she had expected.

The worst part, however, had been the expression on Erik's face. In the moments before he had opened his eyes, his features had displayed such raw beauty, a cry of such intense abandon spilling from his lips. He had clearly found pleasure in the act, but when he'd seen Annie's pain, his bliss was immediately clouded over by grief. Annie hated that moment far more than she hated the pain itself. To see joy stripped away from the one she loved was more unbearable than her own physical discomfort—especially since she knew Erik blamed himself for hurting her, when it was obvious that she had been the one at fault. It had been at her request, after all, that he had agreed to unite them in love. She'd insisted she was ready. Obviously, she wasn't, and now Erik was paying the price—in guilt, sorrow and self-loathing. _This was not the way it was supposed to be, mother,_ Annie sighed. _I did not mean to make him feel like a monster._

Annie pressed her lips against Erik's warm cheek, as she felt a few tears begin to fall. "You will always be my angel, Erik," she whispered against his skin. When he stirred a little in his sleep, Annie hushed him gently. "Go back to sleep, my love," she murmured, as he unconsciously snuggled in closer to her, resting his head against her breast. Annie stroked his hair, holding him close to her beating heart, as she felt sleep mercifully beginning to descend upon her. "Goodnight, my angel," she whispered as she finally closed her eyes.

* * *

Annie smiled as Erik leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on her cheek. "Are you certain you will be alright, Annie?" he asked, smiling at her beneath the brim of his hat, holding her palms firmly in his.

"I will be fine, Erik," she answered, although certainly the fluttery state of her stomach claimed otherwise.

"I will meet you here this evening, then," he promised, giving her hand a little squeeze. "Dance well, my beautiful ballerina."

"I shall try," Annie assured him, as she turned and began the final steps on her journey to the opera house.

The mighty entrance loomed before her at the top of the stairs; cold stone faces scrutinizing her tentative ascent. Despite the fact that the audition had gone splendidly the day before, Annie was a bundle of nerves as she began her first day as a bona fide member of the _corps du ballet_. The soreness she still felt in her pelvic region from her ill-fated attempt to consummate her relationship with Erik did not help—nor did the fact that his kisses this morning had been on her cheek and not on her lips. Her heart and mind were filled with confusion on a day that was supposed to be rife with excitement. Still, she tried her hardest to push the distractions aside, and focus on the day ahead as she climbed the final steps and opened the door to the Palais Garnier.

Annie wrung her hands together and nodded to several other workers, as she walked up the grand staircase and down the long corridor that led to the rehearsal room. The room was large, with a polished wooden floor and huge round windows that pierced the walls at regular intervals. A black, metal barre ran along the perimeter of the room and several of the ballerinas were leaning against it, with one leg in the air, as they performed their pre-dance stretches. Another group of girls was seated on the floor near one of the windows, leaning their noses forward to their knees. Every now and then, a peal of laughter would break out from this group, earning them a harsh look from the rather severe looking older woman, dressed in a white leotard and a long gauzy black skirt. Though she was busy tapping out a steady beat with a large baton for a group of dancers practicing twirls and leaps, she could not allow the lack of discipline to go uncorrected.

"Less laughing and more stretching!" the older woman snapped, glaring over her shoulder at the group on the floor.

"Yes, Madame Delacroix," the girls responded, a few nervous glances passing between all, except for one girl whose long blonde hair was pulled into a pony tail that trailed down her back. "Anything you say, Madame," she responded with a roll of her eyes.

"That will be enough out of you, Babette!" the woman replied. "Or you will be scrubbing the floors of the dormitory on your hands and knees."

"Yes Madame," the blonde girl pretended to be chastened, as she resumed her stretching.

With an approving nod, Madame Delacroix's gaze turned toward Annie. Her eyes narrowing for lack of recognition, she questioned, "And you are…?"

"My name is Antoinette, Madame," Annie provided, nodding her head politely. "Antoinette Laramie."

"Oh, yes," she responded, her face taking on a haughty expression as she looked Annie up and down. "The new girl. Well, Annette…"

" _Antoinette_ ," Annie corrected her with a smile that faded with the ballet mistress's perturbed expression. "Ma'am."

"No difference," the mistress responded with a tight smirk. "I heard you were very good. But since _I_ was not afforded the courtesy of watching you audition, you will simply have to prove that to me yourself."

Annie felt the eyes of the ballerinas around her boring into her skull. Lowering her head, in embarrassment, Annie stammered, "Y…yes…Madame Delacroix. I shall endeavor to do just that."

"See that you do more than try," she warned pointedly, before changing the subject. "You really should have gotten changed in the dormitories."

Annie cleared her throat and explained. "I do not reside in the dormitories. I live on the outskirts of town…with my…brother."

Madame Delacroix gave Annie a hard stare. "That is highly unusual," she stated. "All of my ballerinas stay in the dormitories."

"I know, Madame," Annie nodded. "But Monsieur Giry said it would be alright."

At the mention of Giles Giry's name, Madame Delacroix's eyebrows rose, and a few of the other ballerina's snickered. The blonde girl—Babette—lifted her head and inquired, "Is _he_ your brother, dearie? Or perhaps," she continued with a mischievous look to a couple of her cohorts, "just an overly affectionate _uncle_?"

"Babette Sorelli!" Madame Delacroix snapped. "Another word from your saucy mouth, and I will personally wash it out with soap!"

"Yes, Madame," the blonde said again, with a smirk toward Annie, as she stretched a long, graceful arm out toward her toe.

"I…" Annie began, completely flustered, "I'm sorry, Madame, but there was a fire and my brother…"

Madame Delacroix silenced Annie's explanation with a stern look. "If Monsieur Giry approved of this… _arrangement_ … then I must abide by his wishes. However, do not think his favor will earn you _my_ good graces! Those you must earn on your own… _dancing_ …merits," she said, once again giving Annie an appraising look. "And I would suggest you begin doing that by arriving at rehearsals prepared to rehearse! Go change…now!"

Feeling about two feet tall, Annie swallowed hard before responding, "I must ask to be allowed to borrow a leotard, Madame—and pointe shoes. I…have none of my own."

Madame Delacroix was too busy rolling her eyes to reprimand the snickers that came from Babette's group of dancers. "In the dressing room!" she said, pointing and muttering under her breath, "Giles Giry and his _pets_."

* * *

Erik was discovering that Paris was a much more bustling city than the small town of Toulouse had been. People were truly everywhere in the marketplace surrounding the opera house. Though Erik turned up the collar on his cloak and pulled his brimmed hat far down, one of the first things he did was purchase a long black scarf to wrap around his lower face, further obscuring his mask which had earned a few puzzled looks from both merchants and fellow customers alike.

Thus, feeling adequately concealed from curious eyes, Erik entered a small shop that specialized in fine musical instruments. Inhaling deeply, he took in the cherished aura of music all around him. Violins and violas, constructed out of fine rosewood, glowed from their spots on the wall above a row of warm toned cellos. An enormous double bass stood sentinel in the corner. Trumpets and horns of varying sizes and pitch gleamed showily from glass-enclosed shelves, as delicate silver flutes peeked out from velvet-lined cases. And there, at the back of the shop, stood a magnificent grand piano, made of shiny ebony wood.

Erik walked with anticipation over to the piano, and trailed his long fingers across the elegant ivory keys. It had been so many years since he had even seen a proper piano—much less touched one. His mother had kept a baby grand in her parlor, and he remembered, when he was very young, crouching at the top of the stairs and watching her play the instrument long into the night. The way her fingers had danced over the keys had intrigued him, and he observed with keen eyes, paying close attention to which pitches would sound with what keys. That all ended, of course, the day Erik tried to please her by attempting to play the piano too. When he sat down and immediately rang out his mother's favorite song, Erik saw her face color red, and she lifted him by the arm, dragging him back to his room. She forbade him, in no uncertain terms, from ever touching the instrument again. Shortly after, she'd had it removed from the home.

Erik pressed gently on a few of the smooth keys, closing his eyes when he heard the resonant chord ring out strong and true. In his mind's eye, he could see Annie dancing, as he played her a much more luxurious accompaniment than he could achieve on his old worn violin. Her graceful silhouette would twist and twirl, captivating his soul, and he would soon lose interest in the hard cold keys, preferring instead to run his fingers through the soft, silken waves of her hair. She would let him, of course, and soon they would be dancing to music of their own making, as he trailed passionate kisses down her long, slender neck, allowing his fingers to graze the swell of her …

Erik shook his head to rid his mind of his scandalous thoughts before they could go much further. He could not afford to think of Annie in such a way after the previous night's fiasco. She had given him such pleasure and he had given her nothing but pain. He had to put a stop to his amorous imaginings—even though he had no idea how he was going to do that. The ecstasy he had felt when they had been united…. Erik took in a deep breath and tried to calm the desires that were already building within him from even just the briefest remembrance of their hapless encounter.

Brushing past the approaching merchant, Erik left the store, welcoming the cool outdoor air, fetid though it was, when it filled his lungs. He wished he could rid himself of the confining scarf, but the need to hide from prying eyes was far too great.

When Erik once again felt in control of his emotions, he wandered into a nearby bookseller's. He was hoping to find a book on the opera house, which might explain a bit more about its architecture and the strange corridor they had found behind the wall in Box 5. Unfortunately, the building's opulence of design worked against him. All he could find were volumes detailing the magnificent statues and the extravagant chandelier. There was also a biography of Charles Garnier, which mentioned the Opera House and all of the trials and setbacks he faced when building it—including the discovery of an underground lake, which caused a great delay in the laying of the foundation. Nothing, however, was mentioned about the corridor, and Erik supposed that was to be expected. After all, if it had been written about, the passage would no longer be secret.

Before long, he had exhausted the selection of architecture books, but he found he was quite enjoying his time browsing through the various tomes the bookseller had to offer. Art books, fine literature, adventure novels—Erik thumbed through them with eager curiosity and vigor. For so long books and music had been his only companions. He was truly relishing this afternoon of getting reacquainted with old friends.

When he came to the science section, however, Erik's lighthearted perusal of the literary offerings came to a halt when he pulled out a book titled, _"A Woman's Body."_ It was a fairly large volume, with a simple burgundy cover, the title embossed in gold plate along the front and down the spine. Erik traced the letters with his fingers, taking a moment to decide if he should be so bold as to look inside. But then an image of Annie's pained expression at what should have been the most beautiful moment of their lives made up his mind, and Erik flipped over the cover and began to turn the pages.

After some time had passed, Erik found himself paying the clerk for both the original book and a couple of other titles that seemed to compliment it nicely. Just by browsing through several pages, it was clear to Erik that he had much to learn, if he and Annie could ever hope to try again at… intimacy. Of course, the point might be entirely moot, since he had no idea if Annie would ever again desire him to touch her. Still, it wouldn't hurt to be prepared with the knowledge if ever the time should come.

Erik paid for his purchases and made his way back to the opera house to wait for Annie. It was still a few hours before she would be done for the day, but Erik didn't feel like walking around the market place any longer. All he really wanted to do was find a quiet spot somewhere to start reading his new books. A smile spread across Erik's bundled face, when he realized that the little Opera Box—Box 5—he had hidden in the day before might be the perfect spot.

 **AN: Well, Annie's first day at the opera was not so hot, but Erik's doing some _research..._ :)**


	24. Chapter 24

CH 24

Annie quickly changed in the dressing room, borrowing one of the white leotards and pink tutus that she saw most of the other girls wearing. After rummaging through a bin of worn pointe shoes, she finally tied on a pair that would fit her feet—even if they were a bit tight—and hurried out to join the other girls.

She approached a group of young ladies at the barre, but it seemed that just as Annie arrived, they were finished with their stretches, and they tittered off to practice their leaps and twirls in another part of the room, leaving Annie to warm up alone.

When Madame Delacroix called the group to attention, Annie immediately abandoned her solitary exercises and paid close attention to every word that left the ballet mistress's lips. Though it was her first day at the Garnier, when it came to dance, Annie was a quick study. She did a fine job of keeping up with the other girls, rivaling even Babette Sorelli in skill and grace.

"You have good form, Mademoiselle Laramie," Madame Delacroix said to her, as she circled around her slowly, appraising her arabesque en pointe. "You must have experience in ballet."

"Only that my mother was also a dancer, Madame," Annie responded, keeping her head held high, as she lowered her leg and stood in first position. "She taught me a great deal."

"Was she?" Madame Delacroix's eyebrows rose. "What was her name?"

"Clarice Laramie." Annie said matter-of-factly, as she once again extended her leg behind her.

"Clarice Laramie…" Madame Delacroix looked down, running through her memory as if the name rang a bell. "Clarice…Clarice…" Her head shot up suddenly as if remembering a name long forgotten. "Clarice Joubert?"

"That _was_ her maiden name, Madame," Annie affirmed, as she once again lifted herself en pointe.

"She was a classmate of mine," she said, as a faint smile curled on her lips. "Excellent dancer. But she gave it all up when she married. Luc was his name, was it not?"

"It was," Annie responded.

"Tell me," Madame Delacroix asked, her tough demeanor softening a bit further. "How do they fare?"

Swallowing a lump in her throat, Annie answered plainly, "They are dead, Madame."

The ballet mistress watched a moment longer in silence as Annie continued her methodical routine, not daring to look at this girlhood companion of her mother's, for fear that she would lose the composure she was working very hard to maintain. "I am sorry to hear that, Mademoiselle Laramie," came the ballet mistress's somber voice, when, finally, she spoke. "It is a shame to lose one so talented." The ballet mistress turned to walk away, but added over her shoulder, as if in afterthought, "See to it, that you do not repeat her mistake of abandoning your talent for the sake of your heart. I daresay, you have a future on the stage."

Annie paused for a moment once the ballet mistress was gone, to blink away threatening tears. There were so many thoughts whirling around her head, and at that very moment, she wanted nothing more than to hear her mother's voice. _Would you be proud of me, mother, for following in your footsteps?_ She wondered to herself. _Erik tells me you would, but I wish you were here to tell me yourself. I miss you so much._

The cool, snakelike voice she heard next, however, was the exact opposite of the warm, comforting tones for which she yearned. "First Giles Giry, and now Madame Delacroix," Babette Sorelli noted in saccharine tones as she sidled up next to Annie, to perform her own exercises. "My _my_ —you certainly do like to be the resident pet."

"I do not know what you mean," Annie stated, resuming her routine. "I was simply rehearsing."

"Oh, of course you were, dearie," Babette nodded, eyes wide. "But it was a stroke of genius mentioning your mother's name. Tell me, did you come here knowing that Madame Delacroix was an old friend of your mother's?" And with a toss of her pony tail, Babette gave a little giggle, "Or perhaps that was not _really_ your mother's name at all, but just a convenient moniker you dug up from somewhere, knowing that it would get you an in with the old bat?"

"Clarice Laramie was my mother!" Annie spoke sharply, as the venomous ballerina finally pushed Annie past her breaking point. "I will not have you or anyone else calling that into question!"

A dead silence fell over the rehearsal room as all heads turned toward the confrontation between the ringleader ballerina and the newcomer. "Babette Sorelli," Madame Delacroix stalked back over to where the dancers stood, "I have had enough of your mouth! You are dismissed! I will meet you in your room in ten minutes! I suggest you be in cleaning clothes by then!"

Babette Sorelli's cold blue eyes held Annie's dark gaze a moment more, as a mirthless smile turned up the corners of her lips. "Yes Madame," she said, as she stared a second longer at her prey, and then, with a flip of her ponytail, and a graceful pivot, made her way out of the room.

"Back to work, ladies!" Madame Delacroix commanded, with a crack of her baton. "We shall be moving to the auditorium shortly.

* * *

 _A female's first experience with intercourse is destined to be painful and the appearance of blood is to be expected as her husband tears through her maidenhead during insertion, allowing his seed access to her womb for fertilization. While it is true, however, that a woman does not experience the same intensity of urges that a man does during sexual congress, it may still be possible for future sexual encounters to be at least tolerable and in some cases even pleasant. In order to accomplish this, a husband must demonstrate patience and flatter her with winsome words, offering gentle touches to her body in a mutually pleasing fashion before attempting to achieve penetration. While it may seem more trouble than it's worth to coax a woman into an activity she is duty bound to perform, showing a bit of kindness is likely to produce a wife who is not frigid and is more willing to submit to her husband's carnal needs—thus making the entire experience more pleasurable for both the man and the woman._

Erik looked up from the page he had been reading and leaned back in his velvet-lined chair, playing that first sentence over and over again in his mind. _A female's first experience with intercourse is destined to be painful and the appearance of blood is to be expected…_ To be expected. If Erik were to believe this book, what had happened between him and Annie—that terrible pained expression and the…blood…that she had shed—had been normal, natural, _to be expected_. "Did I really _tear_ through a part of her body?" he wondered out loud, bile rising up in his throat at the thought that he had done something so destructive and so… _damaging_ …to the woman he loved. For a moment, he thought he might be sick, right there in the luxuriant surroundings of Box 5.

But he supposed it all made sense now. Letting his mind fall back to the night at the gypsy camp, when he had witnessed the girl being defiled against her will, he remembered how she had screamed and cried. There'd been blood on her skirts when the women took her away–much like the blood that had been on Annie's thighs. Erik had always attributed the blood that night to the violent nature of her attacker, but if the information were accurate, there would be some bleeding during a woman's first time, even if the desire had been mutual and there was no malice intended in the act.

However, the book also noted that future encounters didn't have to be painful—as long as the man exhibited _patience_. Erik closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers, even more convinced now that his own lack of finesse had contributed greatly to the disaster he and Annie had experienced the night before. The book promised, however, that with _winsome words_ and _gentle touches_ he could be certain that her future encounters were "tolerable, and in some cases pleasant."

Erik had no desire to make Annie's experience merely tolerable. Nor did he want it to be in any case simply _pleasant_. No, Erik desired only to make Annie join him in the mind shattering ecstasy he had never thought possible until their two bodies had been united as one. That was his singular goal—to see her consumed with the same fiery passion that had ravaged his own soul, watching rapture and delight spread across her face. Erik had to find a way to make that happen—even if the blasted book insinuated that women did not feel pleasure as intensely as men. From the night long ago, when they had first met at the gypsy fair, he and Annie had experienced everything _together_. For the joys of physical love to have any meaning for Erik, they must be mutually shared. That objective was certainly not " _more trouble than it was worth,"_ as the book suggested. For that prize, he would give anything.

Erik closed his eyes and remembered the reactions Annie was having to his heated touches in the moments before they had decided to join. Her skin had flushed and her breath had quickened—and the way she threw her head back and moaned when he kissed her neck made him tremble even now. Erik felt his own breathing becoming erratic as he recalled her sharp intake of air when he'd pinched a hardening nipple. Running his hands roughly up his thighs, he recalled how arousing it had been to caress the silken flesh on hers. What if his hand had continued its achingly sweet journey to the center between her legs? What if he had teased her first with his fingers, coaxing moans and sighs from her exquisite lips with gentle touches and words of devotion? Would he have been able to show her pleasure beyond the pain? Would it have been sufficient to carry her with him into bliss?

Erik detected a brightening behind his closed eyes and lifted his lids to see the stage lights coming on in the auditorium. Quickly, he shifted behind the curtain at the front of the box, pulling it slightly to the side so he could still see what was happening on the stage. He saw a line of ballerinas, all in white leotards and fluffy tutus, gracefully making their entrance, followed by an older woman in a long black skirt who must have been the ballet mistress.

He spotted Annie immediately. Her expression was intent and focused. Her long black hair had been pulled back into a rough bun, a few of the tendrils slipping out to delicately frame her face. Erik's fingers, which were still holding back the curtain, twitched with the desire to reach out and brush the silky locks back, wishing to graze the satiny skin of her cheek as he did so, in an attempt to soften the lines of tension upon her face. But taking a deep breath, he reminded himself to just sit back and watch, as Annie would want. No one, including her, knew he was here—and it was in his best interest—and hers—to keep it that way.

"Ladies!" the older woman snapped in a no nonsense tone of voice, that demanded respect, accompanied by a loud crack of her baton, "Positions!"

Erik watched as Annie and the rest of the girls made a straight line which ran the length of the stage. When the ballet mistress started to count out a steady beat, they began their routine. Annie was in perfect step with the rest as they moved in a single entity across the stage, but Erik only had eyes for her. He watched as she elegantly unfurled one arm in front of her while extending one of her long graceful legs behind her in a dainty arabesque, supporting her entire body only with the strength of the toes of other leg. With a flourish, she twisted herself so that she was en pointe with both feet, before jumping and crossing her legs several times in the air, landing once again on her delicate yet stalwart toes. Several more times, she did this, alternating with vigorous one-foot spins, and Erik watched amazed at the absolute athleticism his little dancer possessed. Erik felt his breathing quicken when she leapt through the air, arms curved upward and legs fully extended into what Annie had once told him was called a _grand jete'._ She landed, one foot in front of the other, her upper body arched slightly backward, jutting her heaving bosom outward, as she attempted to regain her breath.

Erik gazed upon her, transfixed. He had always known Annie was beautiful, but in that moment she was absolutely breathtaking. Her cheeks were flushed from the effort of the dance, and her skin glistened with perspiration. Erik's mouth fell open and his fingers tightened their hold on the velvet fabric within their grip as a single bead of sweat began a tantalizing journey from her neck down her collarbone and into the dark hollow between her breasts. The sight made his trousers tighten with his need.

Oh how he longed to follow that trail with the tip of his tongue—and yet continuing on when he reached the two globed treasures that were now concealed beneath tightly stretched fabric. He would nip at the raised tips with his teeth, as she writhed in pleasure beneath him, and his hands would journey lower, to that space between her agile legs…

Suddenly the loud rustle of fabric crashing down around him was accompanied by screams from the ballerinas on stage, and Erik jumped backward as he jerked out of his fantasy to see that the curtain in Box 5 had been torn from its supports and was now heaped across several of the seats of the auditorium below. Erik's cheeks grew hot when he realized that in his ardent imaginings he must have pulled too hard on the fabric, loosing it from its hangings.

"Who's there!" he heard a nervous cry.

"Perhaps it's a ghost!" cried one of the ballerinas, fear evident in her voice.

"There's no such thing as ghosts!" another one admonished.

"How do you know?" asked a third. "They say there were strange sounds coming out of that very same box the other day! Harsh moans and groans like a ghost rattling its chains!"

"My God, we're haunted!" cried one of the girls, as she buried her head in a companion's shoulder.

"Enough!" came the harsh shout of the ballet mistress, accompanied by a resounding boom as she loudly cracked her baton against the stage. "I will have the stage hand investigate Box 5—but I do not want to hear any more nonsense about ghosts—is that understood? You call yourself dancers—then we shall rehearse!" And with that, the rattled ballerinas scrambled to take their places on the stage once more, fear and worry residing behind their eyes—combined with a fair helping of curiosity. Annie however, raised her eyes directly to Box 5 with a scowl of extreme annoyance, telling Erik that there would be much for him to explain later.

Erik winced when he saw Annie's irritated expression, but he did not have long to fret, for he could hear the thump of footsteps sounding from the hallway. They were coming to investigate!

A moment of panic struck his heart, until he remembered the accidental discovery he and Annie had made yesterday. Gathering his books, and grabbing the lantern that was hanging on the wall, Erik rushed over to the mirror and quickly tripped the little lever above. And as the wall swung open before him, Erik hurriedly took his first steps into darkness.

* * *

The lantern glowed softly on the rough-hewn walls of the narrow passageway that Erik once again found himself within. The floor was made of the same unfinished stone as the rest of the hallway, but his shoes made no sound as he took several small steps forward. Erik always had been light on his feet.

Before long, the narrow corridor came to a stop. To the left and to the right of him, there were similar tunnels, and Erik could only imagine that they led to other exits around the second floor of the opera house. Directly in front of him, however, was a heavy stone staircase, and holding his lantern out over it, Erik could see that it twisted as it wound its way down what appeared to be several stories below the ground floor of the opera. The stairs led upward as well, but as Erik stood there considering, tales he'd read of the setbacks Charles Garnier had faced came swirling to the forefront of his mind. The sub-cellars had been used for many things during the fourteen-year course of construction. It had been, among other things, a hospital, a communications center, a military post and a powder store during times of war. And then there was the lake that had been a thorn in Garnier's side during the laying of the foundation, but which had piqued Erik's interest the moment he'd learned about it. He had good experiences with subterranean lakes. Erik's mind was made up and he eagerly began his descent, excited to tell Annie later of the wonders he would find.

The stairs went on forever it seemed, every so often, being broken by a landing of sorts with tunnels that would lead off in one direction or another. He would be sure to further investigate each and every one of those tunnels at a later time, he thought, perhaps mapping out the entire labyrinth. But today he was focused on finding the lake.

Erik lost track of time as he continued his journey into the bowels of the building, descending step after step, until he was no longer certain of how many floors he had passed. But finally the stairs were no more.

Erik took a tentative step into the tunnel that shot off the bottom step. The air around him was musty, damp, and very, very cold. Erik pulled his cloak more tightly around him, to guard against the chill that had seeped into his bones and he simply stood—and listened. He could detect a faint rippling from somewhere nearby. He continued slowly down the narrow pathway until suddenly, the walls around him gave way to a great cavernous space, supported by a maze of stone archways. The walls were jagged and rocky, as if they were carved out of the very earth beneath the stately building. Little alcoves were hollowed out at regular intervals—much like the ones in which Early Christians were known to lay their dead. _Was this part of the catacombs?_ he wondered, thinking of the vast network of underground tunnels that ran beneath the streets of Paris—the walls of which were lined in bones.

A chill tingled up Erik's spine, and he shone his lantern before him, wishing to make certain not to trip over a skeleton or two. But the ever-beckoning gurgle of running water pulled him onward, where he otherwise might not have dared to tread.

And then, finally, he found it.

When the opera house began construction, Charles Garnier ran into an unforeseen problem. Upon excavation of the land, his crew discovered deep, running water—apparently, an arm of the Seine which flowed directly beneath where the stage would one day be. It was impossible to lay a foundation under these conditions, so the story went that Garnier brought in steam pumps—eight in all—to try to rid the site of this pernicious foe. He ran the pumps continuously for months—but to no avail. The water was persistent and would not leave, so Garnier was forced to incorporate an aqueduct of sorts into his plans for the foundation, containing the water within a concrete cistern, before construction was able to continue—some eight months later.

And now, Erik had finally come upon this man-made lake—a wonder of Garnier's own hand. He crouched down on his knees, and ran a hand through the liquid before him. It was cool and it was rippling, and it glowed green in the lantern's light. A rolling mist rose up from its surface, to blanket the top of it with fog. Erik looked up and all around him—at the arched walkways and the vaulted ceilings; at the roughhewn walls and the stone floor beneath his feet; at the troublesome force of nature harnessed by man into a practical, yet extraordinary waterway. _"I think it's beautiful,"_ he murmured, as he thought of the cave that he and Annie had lived in for years and felt as if he had suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, come home.

 **AN: Oh Erik! Always frightening the ballerinas! BUT, he found the lake! And, of _course_ he thinks it's beautiful! It's HOME! :)**


	25. Chapter 25

**AN: I have been so busy lately, preparing for Christmas, that it has been far too long since I've posted! Sorry about that! Please enjoy this next chapter!**

CH 25

By the time Erik managed to drag himself away from the underground lake and up the countless steps back to Box 5, the stage in the auditorium was once again dark. In fact, he could hear very little sound coming from anywhere in the opera house, which led him to believe that it was far later than when he had planned on meeting Annie at the corner where he had left her that morning. Hanging the lantern back on its hook, and checking the pocket in his cloak to make certain he had his books, he glanced out the window to make certain the path was clear, and quickly departed the box, making haste for the opera house's exit.

As he suspected, the sky had grown dark, and the now glittering streetlamps added a soft yellow glow to the world around him. Crowds of people were still scurrying here and there, on their way to dinner engagements or filing into nearby theaters. But there on the corner, Annie leaned against a streetlamp, her arms wrapped tightly about her chest, head hanging low, a solitary figure among the merry makers.

Guilt prickled at Erik's heart at the sight of her standing there looking so forlorn, waiting for him long after the hour they had planned to meet. But the thrill of finding the lake was still bubbling in his mind, and he couldn't wait to tell her of his discovery.

"Annie," Erik called, making haste to close the distance between them.

Annie's head shot up at the sound of her name, but she stayed quiet as she watched Erik approach.

"Annie," he said when he finally reached her, placing a hand on each of her upper arms. "I'm here." And, with a smile, he bent low to taste her lips.

At the last second, however, Annie shifted her face so that his kiss landed on her cheek instead. "I was beginning to believe you weren't coming," she said in a quiet voice without looking at him.

"Oh, Annie," Erik said, a bit more contrite now about having been late. "You know I'll always come for you."

"How am I to know anything that you're going to do these days, Erik?" she asked, breaking free of his hold and beginning to walk in quick strides in the direction of their cottage.

Erik watched her go for a moment, her angry scowl from the stage flashing briefly in his mind, before he scurried to catch up. "Annie," he told her in a pleading voice, "I can explain."

"Can you?" she asked, never breaking stride. "Because I thought you were going to spend the day at the marketplace, and meet me at the corner at the _end_ of the day."

"Well, I did go to the marketplace." He insisted his voice rising about an octave in indignation. "But then I…"

"Decided to sneak into Box 5 again and redecorate?" she snapped, picking up her pace.

"Annie, no, I…" his voice trailed off and his face reddened as he wondered how exactly he _was_ going to explain why the curtains had come down in the opera box. "I finished at the marketplace early, and just wanted to find a quiet place to do some reading."

"Reading?" Annie spat incredulously, finally stopping to look at him. "You pulled the entire curtain off the wall in an opera box and sent it hurtling down into the auditorium."

"That was an accident…" Erik tried to interject.

"The entire corps du ballet thinks the opera house is _haunted_ by some…some… _opera ghost!"_

Erik chuckled nervously, "I cannot be responsible for the imaginations of young girls…"

"You cannot be responsible…?" Annie repeated in disbelief. "Erik, you _are_ responsible! You are the _reason_ they think these things! And you ought to be glad they do, because if they had found what really brought that curtain down…"

"Annie, they _didn't_ find me," Erik reminded her with a smile.

"Well. I suppose that makes everything alright, then, doesn't it?" And once again, Annie flounced off in the direction of the cottage, leaving Erik nothing to do but follow.

They walked the rest of the way to their cottage in silence, Annie because she was obviously furious, and Erik because he just didn't know what to say. Once the door was closed behind them, Annie immediately kicked off her shoes and went over to sit on the settee, reaching down to rub her aching feet. Erik watched silently as discomfort knotted Annie's brow. He disappeared into the little kitchen, and emerged a short while later with a basin of warmed water.

Carrying it carefully to where Annie sat on the settee, Erik knelt down, placing the basin on the floor. Then, wordlessly, he met Annie's eyes, and after first removing her stockings and placing them off to the side, he guided her feet, one by one, into the soothing liquid.

Annie let loose a shuddering sigh, and her eyes closed against the relief she felt on her tired feet. When she felt Erik dip his hands into the basin and begin to massage her tender muscles, Annie began to talk.

"It was a hard day, Erik," Annie sighed. "Madame Delacroix is very strict and she was not pleased that I was not staying in the dormitories, or that I didn't have my own ballet attire. I don't fit in with the other girls and I think one of them outright hates me!"

"Well, then she is a fool," Erik stated plainly, as he continued to knead her sore feet. "And most likely jealous. It is human nature to hate what one cannot attain. Besides," he continued. "You looked like you were fitting in very well with the other girls. Your dancing was flawless, Annie."

"Erik, if you had been found…"

"I would never have let them find me. . ."

"But if they _had_ , I would have been out of this job before I'd even begun. And as hard as it was today, Erik, I realize that I do want to keep this job…I want to dance. Mother…" Annie's voice faltered as her mother's smiling image flashed in her mind. "Mother would be so disappointed if I quit or got let go…"

"Your mother could never be anything but proud of the extraordinarily beautiful and talented woman you have become," Erik told her firmly.

"It's just…" Annie wiped away a tear that had suddenly sprung into her eyes. "I didn't imagine I would feel so close to her on the stage. I didn't expect for her to seem so near—as if she were watching over me the whole day."

"From what you tell me about her, Annie," Erik murmured, allowing his hands to reach up and stroke the knotted muscles in her calves. "I'm sure that she was."

"I don't want to lose that, Erik," she said, her voice hitching on a sob. "—Not now that she feels so close again."

Erik reached up and pulled Annie tightly into his embrace, as she tearfully buried her head in his shoulder. He squeezed her close to him and stroked her hair gently, placing whisper soft kisses upon the top of her head. "Shhhhh. . . Annie," he murmured again and again. "It's alright."

Erik held Annie until her tears quieted, and when she pulled back to dry her eyes, he took her hands in his. "I promise, Annie," he vowed. "I will never do anything ever again to jeopardize your role at the opera house. I'm sorry I caused trouble today." Placing another gentle kiss on the top of her head, he whispered, "I love you, Annie."

"I love you too, Erik," she told him as she threw her arms around him and pulled him back into a warm embrace. "I love you with all my heart."

They held each other for a long while, and later, after a quick meal, they retired directly to bed where they could curl up in one another's arms once more. Erik rubbed gentle circles on Annie's back to help her fall asleep, and as she was teetering on the edge of consciousness she tilted her head upward and asked, in a dreamy voice, "Erik, how _did_ the curtain fall in Box 5? And where did you manage to hide?"

"Oh, my love," Erik murmured, and kissed her gently on her lips before nestling her more closely into his chest. "Those are stories for another day."

* * *

"So will you be going back to the bookstore today, Erik?" Annie asked as she flounced around the room, getting ready for her day. She was in a much better mood after having rested all night in Erik's arms, and found that she was actually excited about starting her second day at the opera house. "If so, you really might not want to use Box 5 as a personal reading room today," she warned as she sat on the edge of the bed to pull on a shoe. "They still need to re-hang a certain curtain," she smirked turning in his direction to show him she was teasing. But when she saw him standing quietly in front of the mirror, her voice sobered in concern.

"Erik?" she asked, walking slowly to where he stood, and placing her hands on his shoulders. "What's wrong?"

Erik cleared his throat and patted down his hair with one hand, while reaching for his mask with the other. "I am not going to the bookstore today, Annie. I am going to find a job." He declared, turning to her as his fingers nervously tied the cords of his mask behind his head.

"A job, Erik?" Annie asked, reaching forward and absently running her hands down his chest, smoothing the fabric of his shirt. "What kind of job?'

"I am going to visit some of the construction sites around Paris," he told her, with determination in his voice. "Certainly one of them will have a job for an able-bodied young man who is willing to work and eager to learn about building."

Annie smiled at the conviction in his eyes, but noted the trepidation lurking there as well. "Erik," she reached up and gently touched the mask. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am sure, Annie," he said, forcing a chuckle, and grasping her hand to press a loving kiss to her fingers. "I must do this for our future."

Despite her worries for Erik, Annie smiled at that thought. "Our future."

And upon seeing her face brighten with delight, Erik leaned down and kissed Annie fully on the mouth, wishing he had done so before putting on the mask. When they separated, Erik squeezed her hands in his, promising, "We will have a wonderful future, Annie. Full of so much happiness and love."

"My life with you, Erik, is already full of happiness and love," she smiled at him. "I know that it will simply continue to get better."

"Mmmmmm," he grinned, as he stole another kiss from her delectable lips, his thoughts turning, for a moment, to the knowledge he had gained from his reading yesterday, "and better!" But then, pulling away, he said, "But now we must go, because I cannot have my little dancer showing up late for work on only her second day!"

"Erik!" she scolded him, as she had since they were children, "I am not so very little!"

Placing a quick kiss on the top of her head, he reminded her, "You will always be littler than me!"

Annie put her arm through his as she grumbled, "Beanstalk!"

"Thumbelina!" Erik smirked, leading them in the direction of the door.

"You are impossible!" Annie huffed loudly in amused indignation.

"And you are adorable!" he took her by surprise with the endearment, and squeezed her arm a little closer to his as they began to make their way out of the cottage. "And I love you for it."

Feeling her tummy flutter a bit at Erik's sudden sweetness, Annie opened her mouth to respond. Before she could, however, Erik muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Annie to hear, "Even if you are a munchkin!"

Laughing despite herself, Annie punched Erik good-naturedly, saying in a sarcastic tone, "Oh, Erik, I love you too!"

Pausing to give Annie a little squeeze and a kiss on the forehead, the lovers giggled as they made their way into the city.

* * *

Erik left Annie at the corner, just as he had the previous day, parting from his love with a kiss on the cheek. He yearned to allow his feet to carry him back to Box 5 and into the solitary tunnels once more, to explore the rest of the hidden riches the Garnier had to offer. He kept his word, however, and instead made his way toward the building sites he and Annie had spied around Paris.

Erik had nothing but bad luck at the first few sites he visited. It seemed there were no openings for a man his age having no experience in building or carpentry but simply an interest in architecture. "We already have an architect," he heard at one site. "We don't have time to teach you what you need to learn," he heard at another, "Sorry, but the foreman isn't even here," he heard at the third. Time and again, he was met with denial and refusals, citing his lack of experience for a reason, but the looks of suspicion that his mask earned did not go unnoticed. He was beginning to think his aspirations of finding a job would never come to fruition. How could he ever hope to be the kind of husband Annie deserved if he could not find any sort of gainful employment? Would his face once again be the reason for disappointment and failure? He could not allow that. For Annie, he had to keep trying.

It was about midday when Erik happened upon a building project taking place at the top of a large hill. The site was a bevy of noise and activity, with workers carrying heavy supplies to and fro, and carpenters hammering nails into the wooden frames that would be the bones of what looked to be a rather luxurious building. Erik's eyes scanned the commotion of the site until they fell upon an older gentleman, in rolled up shirtsleeves, scanning a clipboard while gesturing animatedly to a rather nervous looking youth. _This must be the foreman_ , Erik thought, and he slowly approached the formidable looking stranger as the boy was dispatched, scurrying off with what must have been an urgent message for another member of the crew.

"Excuse me, sir," Erik said, clearing his throat to get the boss's attention.

"Huh?" the man asked, looking up from his clipboard, a cigar perched between his teeth. When the foreman realized it was not one of his usual workers standing in front of him, but instead a strange boy wearing a dark cloak, a wide brimmed hat and a…a _mask,_ his eyes narrowed in confusion. "Who are you?"

Swallowing the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat, Erik answered, "My name is Erik, sir, and I am looking for a job."

"Do you have a last name, Erik?" the man asked gruffly.

The name Laramie teased at his tongue, but Erik was hesitant to use it until he and Annie were officially husband and wife. "Just Erik sir."

"I see," the foreman said, looking Erik up and down once more in an appraising fashion. "You don't look like a construction worker, boy."

"I am not a construction worker," Erik answered. " _Yet_." And then, realizing it would not pay for him to be flippant to a prospective employer, added, "Sir."

With a roll of his eyes, the foreman asked, "You got any experience in the construction business, boy?"

"No, sir," Erik admitted honestly.

"Well, I already have a message boy," the foreman began, looking way and waving his hand by way of dismissal, "so. . ."

"I am quite willing to learn, sir," Erik responded, vehemently, "If you would only give me the chance."

"Why do you want to work here?" the boss asked, turning back to Erik.

"I have always been fond of architecture, sir," Erik responded. "And…" Erik could not keep the desperation out of his voice as he admitted, "I am to be married. I wish to provide a good life for my future wife. She…" his voice faltered a little as he implored, "only deserves the _best_ , sir."

The foreman considered him for a moment, all the while chewing thoughtfully on his cigar. "What of the mask, boy?" he asked plainly. "My men may not take well to extravagance like that…"

"I assure you, sir," Erik responded looking down. "The mask is no extravagance. Rather it is an article of extreme necessity."

"Still, they may not take kindly to you wearing it," he warned. "They can be a rather suspicious lot."

"They would take less kindly to me _not_ wearing the mask, believe me," Erik insisted. "Please sir," he begged. "Give me a chance to prove to you that I can learn."

Still looking a bit uncertain, the foreman agreed, saying, "Look, kid. I can't promise you anything _other_ than a chance. This is a very important job, and if my crew cannot handle your little…necessity… I'm going to have to let you go."

Erik sighed with a measure of relief, "Thank you sir! Thank you."

"Like I said, kid," the foreman reiterated. "This isn't a promise of employment. This is a chance to show me you can work with my men. But I cannot tolerate anything that would put this project in jeopardy."

"I understand, sir," Erik assured the man, even going so far as to offer a firm handshake. "And I promise you, your faith in me will not be misplaced." Then, as an afterthought, Erik asked, "What is this project anyway, sir?"

"We are building for nobility, boy!" The foreman declared with a clap to Erik's back. "A new mansion for the Count de Chagny."

 **AN: Aren't Erik and Annie just the cutest? Even when they argue, they manage to come back together so easily. They kind of remind me of my daughter and her "boyfriend" ("He's NOT my _boyfriend,_ MOM!")-in the short and tall dept. In fact, she often calls him a tree...**

 **And it looks like Erik MIGHT have gotten himself a job? We shall see...**


	26. Chapter 26

CH 26

Annie's second day at the opera house started more smoothly than her first. Having arrived a bit earlier than the previous day, she had time to change into her borrowed attire before anyone else had reported for the day. Her feet protested being stuffed back into those too-tight shoes, but she knew it was a necessity. Once she started receiving her wages she would put a little aside each week so that she could purchase her own.

Annie was one of the first to enter the warm up room, walking straight over to the barre to work on her stretches. Alone, of course, in her workout, she lost herself in thoughts of the recent turns her life had taken. Such a short time ago, she was living in a cave, and dancing for her supper in a small village square. Now, she was a member of the corps du ballet, about to make her debut on the premiere stage in Paris—just like her mother had before her. _Can you believe it, mother?_ she asked herself, as memories of her childhood, passed through her mind. Many were the afternoons she would spend with her mother practicing plies and releves and the five positions of the feet. Mother would smile, but Annie was serious—concentrating hard on getting things just right—until mother would spring up suddenly on her feet and scoop Annie high into the air, declaring that the lesson was over and it was now time for play. _You always knew just how far to push me, mother_ , Annie recalled. _You always knew just how much I needed._

The door opened on the far side of the room, and animated giggles suddenly filled the air. Glancing up quickly, she saw Babette Sorelli make her entrance, along with a gaggle of her cronies. Annie quickly averted her eyes from them, but as they took their places at the opposite mirror, they did nothing to lower their voices, acting as if Annie didn't even exist.

"You're moving a little slow today, Giselle," one of the girls teased, as she took hold of the barre with her right hand and began to lean in toward the mirror, extending her left leg out. "Wild night with your nobleman?"

When Annie heard a cacophony of scattered gasps, she glanced in her mirror to catch a reflection of what was happening. A petite redhead, who was presumably called Giselle, was standing amid the circle of girls, her cheeks turning that particular shade of bright pink only redheads can achieve.

"We were right!"

"It's true!"

"Come on, Giselle! Tell us what happened!" came the bevy of shrieks, as the other girls all stopped what they were doing and closed in on the hapless victim, practically clawing at her for answers.

"Alright, alright!" she protested, and instantly the girls quieted down, looking at her expectantly. "Well, you know that Philippe and I have been getting more serious," the girl began her tale, with a slightly shaky voice.

The other girls once again became impatient with her hesitance.

"Yeah, yeah…"

"We know…"

"Out with it…"

"It's…" Giselle began again, embarrassment clear in her voice, "been getting harder and harder to refuse him, and last night we…we… Well, I let him…"

"Pluck your flower?" Babette interjected with a twirl of her ponytail. "Butter your bread? Divest you of your _virtue_?"

" _Babette_!" Giselle shrieked, and the color in her face was now a deep crimson.

"Oh, no wonder you seem sore," a taller, brunette said, nodding in sympathy. "Did it hurt you, hon?"

"The first time always does," said another of the girls, sharing a knowing glance with the dark haired ballerina.

"Well…" Giselle began bashfully.

"Did you close your eyes, lie on your back and think of England?" a dancer with a British accent asked.

"Or did you demand to play 'St. George,' flip him over, and make him see the stars?" Babette interjected, rousing howls of laughter from the other girls.

"It gets better, hon," said the brunette, ignoring Babette's raucous behavior completely, and reaching out to squeeze Giselle's hand.

"Yeah, it does," said another girl with a jet-black braid, working hard to quiet her laughter. "It can be pretty wonderful."

"Yeah," sighed another. "But he has to make sure you're ready, right Michelle?"

"Oh _right_ Naomi," Michelle nodded, and told Giselle, "He cannot rush things! You need to make him take his time, and give you lots of…well, _attention_ …if you know what I mean."

"Like a well-placed finger…or two," Babette chimed in, sending the girls into another chorus of giggles.

Though Annie did not think it were possible, Giselle's face reddened even further, and she groaned, "How am I supposed to _make_ him do that?"

"Well, you could always _tell_ him what you want," Naomi offered.

Giselle gasped, covering her now burning face in her hands "Oh, no! I couldn't do that!"

"Course you could!" Babette quipped, a sickly saccharine tone in her voice. "You're a big girl now. Plus, I'm _sure_ he's heard it before."

"Babette," Michelle scolded, while Marie shot the blond dancer a disapproving look. "That was unkind."

Babette simply shrugged, and with a smirk turning up the corner of her lips, began to stretch along the barre.

"You could also nudge his hand to where you want it most," Marie said gently, with no hint of teasing. "Tell him how you're feeling with little whispers and sighs. If he truly loves you, he'll _want_ to please you."

When Babette let out a loud snicker, the rest of the girls all stared at her. "What?" she asked innocently, looking up from her stretches. "You are all right of course." Then speaking directly to Giselle, she added, "He _should_ want to please you, Giselle. _If_ he loves you," she added, with a tight little smile, before turning back to her warm-up.

Giselle regarded Babette with narrowed eyes before she turned and smiled at the kindly dark haired dancer. "Thank you, Marie," she said, nodding. "And Michelle, and Naomi. I…appreciate your advice."

The girls slowly got back to their stretching, with a new round of snickers breaking out every now and then when Babette would say something lewd and embarrassing. Annie felt terribly for the red haired girl, her own disastrous deflowering still fresh in her memory. But the words of the dark-haired dancer played over and over again in her mind. _"It gets better, hon. . . If he truly loves you, he'll want to please you."_

There was not the slightest doubt in Annie's mind that Erik truly loved her. He told her a thousand times a day in words and deeds. Last night, when he had massaged her aching feet, her feet, she had felt as if she were the most beloved woman in the world. They had not come even close to trying again at physical love—not after their catastrophic first attempt. With everything that had been going on at the opera house, there had been so much else to think about. And yet now, as she completed her workout, she could see a vision of Erik naked before her, a fiery glow in his golden eyes, his lips kissing her neck, as she gently guided his fingers up her inner thighs…

Annie could feel her pulse quickening and that all too familiar ache settle in between her legs. She had never been opposed to trying again. Even if it pained her, to see that hazy look of desire in Erik's eyes, and to hear his cries of pleasure—to Annie it would all be worth it. But if Marie was to be believed—and certainly, she seemed to speak from experience—perhaps it did not always have to hurt. _It gets better…_

A wry smile came over Annie's lips, thinking about her dear, beloved beanstalk. _Erik,_ she thought to herself. _We may need to put that theory to the test._

* * *

Erik's entire body was screaming in pain—but it was a pain well earned, so very different from the agonies that had been dealt upon him by others' cruel hands in the past. He had begun working on the deChagny mansion immediately after the foreman hired him, and now, as the day drew to a close, he had lost count of how many wheelbarrows of brick he had filled and pushed up the incline to where the mason workers were beginning to build up walls. His cloak and his hat had been discarded immediately upon beginning his task. His sleeves were rolled up, and the sweat poured down his back, causing his shirt to cling to his skin uncomfortably. Though he yearned to remove the troublesome article of clothing, the network of scars on his back and chest made that impossible. So he tried his best to ignore it, as he loaded another cart and pushed it up the hill.

The men on the site didn't talk to him, but that was fine with Erik. He had no desire to waste his breath on meaningless conversation, when he needed that air to fortify his lungs for the labor ahead of him. The foreman had clearly explained his duties to him when he had arrived— there was no need for further discussion. He was to move the bricks, load by load to the structure, to keep the builders working efficiently. Still, every now and then, as he used a soiled rag to wipe the sweat from his brow, he would steal glances at the how the masons would spread the thick mortar upon the bricks already laid, before expertly placing the next layer. It was a craft he would truly love to learn more about, as images of the world's great pieces of architecture swirled in his mind. For now, however, he had to retrieve yet another load of bricks.

He could not complain, he thought, as he lifted the bricks carefully into the wheelbarrow. Even with the aches and soreness that were building up in his muscles, Erik's heart was light. He had done it! He had secured employment and even now was earning francs that would allow him to provide a new home for the woman he loved—the woman who had been with him through so much already; the one who had seen beyond his ugliness to the man he was beneath and loved him—even when he thought himself unlovable; the woman who had agreed to become his wife. He smiled a bit when he thought of Annie. Every brick he loaded into the wagon—every step he pushed it up the hill was a step toward their future. Erik had no time to dwell on the pains of today when he and Annie were moving forward toward happiness forever.

At the end of the shift, he took a moment to once again wipe the sweat from his brow before retrieving his cloak and hat and heading to tent that served as the foreman's makeshift office to collect his daily pay. He felt his stomach churning a bit, and his heart begin to beat a little faster, as he approached the canvas structure. It had been years since he had run away from the gypsy fair, but even after all this time, the horrors he suffered there were still strong in his memory. Echoes of women's screams and flashes of the master's whip played through his mind. But he inhaled deeply and reminded himself that it was his future he needed to think about—not his long dead past—and standing as proud as his aching back would allow, he soundlessly entered the tent.

Three men were hunched around the foreman's desk, speaking in low, harsh tones. Erik couldn't hear all of what they said, but enough of their conversation carried over to where he stood by the entrance of the tent to make it clear what they were discussing.

"…don't even know who he is or where he came from…doesn't even have a last name!"

"…red marks beneath his shirt…"

"…He…he could be some kind of escaped criminal or something…"

The foreman rolled his eyes and threw his head back in disgust. "Oh for heaven's sake," he barked. "The boy has done nothing wrong. He moved bricks all day—a job you all complain to me about endlessly when you have to do it yourselves. But from him, I haven't heard one word of protest! For that you want to condemn him?"

"It would not do," sniveled one of the other men, "to have a criminal working on the count's residence, now would it?"  
"Well, it appears that I already have a bunch of imbeciles working on it!" the foreman snapped in exasperation. "Why are you so convinced the boy is a criminal?"

"The _mask_ , sir! Why must he hide behind a mask?"

"My dear _colleagues_ ," Erik spat, stopping the conversation short, as the men turned with gasps to see him standing in the entrance of the tent. "You should be thanking me for covering my face. Believe me, it is to your great benefit that I do so." Taking a few measured steps toward the gathering of men, Erik continued, in an icy tone. "If you wanted to know what lay beneath the mask, all you had to do was ask me. But of course, that would have required talking to me—or at least acknowledging my existence."

"Now, Erik…,2" the foreman began in a tone that said he was trying to keep the peace. "Don't let these…"

"We will not work with him," one of the men sputtered, turning on the foremen. "And we speak for the rest of the crew as well."

"We all talked before we came in here," another of the men chimed in. "And if you mean to keep him, _we_ all go!"

"Don't threaten me!" the foreman roared. "You all can't afford to walk off the job!"

"Can _you_ afford a work stoppage on the count's mansion?" asked the third worker, speaking a bit more confidently than the other two. "For the sake of some inexperienced boy who never even _apprenticed_ a day in his life? Who is at worst a criminal, and at best some kind of circus freak who has to hide his face behind a mask?"

Erik flinched at the man's accusations. It had been years since he had heard that insult hurled in his direction, but he found that it had not lost its sting. The fact remained—once a freak, always a freak. Erik closed his eyes and hung his head low. _I tried, my dearest Annie. I tried._

"I want all of you out of my tent right now!" the foreman bellowed in anger, and the men began to scramble. "Get out! All of you! You can pick up your pay tomorrow, but for now, I want your worthless faces out of my sight!"

As Erik turned to go, he heard the foreman say, in a quieter tone, "Wait, Erik, you stay."

Once the men were out of his office, the foreman gestured for Erik to come over to his desk.

"Take a seat," he offered.

"I prefer to stand." Erik said quietly.

With a heavy sigh, the foreman began, "You see what I'm up against, kid?" When Erik made no answer, the foreman continued, "I can't afford to have any delays in the build. I have to think of the project first. I…" he shook his head in disgust, "have to let you go."

"I understand sir," Erik said, not looking at him.

"Still," the man said, his voice softening as he opened a drawer in his desk. "You worked hard today, son. And I hate to have to do this." He counted out several francs and handed them to Erik. "This is your pay for today."

Erik took the money the foreman handed him, and counted it out himself. "Sir," he said looking up at the man. "This would be pay for the week." Shaking his head, he counted out the amount he actually earned for the half day he labored and handed the rest back to the foreman. "You promised me a chance, sir. You gave me that. I cannot take your charity."

With a huff the foreman took the money back, shoving it back in the drawer before slamming the drawer shut. "It's a damn shame, kid. You've got a strong back and a hell of a lot of integrity. You could do this job." And shaking his head, he added, "Listen. Go somewhere and get some experience. People's minds in other places might not be as closed as they are here. Get yourself some training and then come back and find me. There will always be another house to build, and once you've got the experience behind your name, you can tell the other guys to shove it! Literally. They will be pushing _your_ bricks."

"Thank you, sir," he said quietly, nodding his head and turning to go.

"And hey! Kid?" the foreman said just before Erik could leave.

"Yes sir?" he asked over his shoulder.

"You can tell your little lady you did a fine job."

With a final nod, and a tight smile, Erik exited the tent, and began to make his way back to the opera house. _I tried, Annie. I tried._

* * *

"Alright ladies," Madame Delacroix called from her spot on the floor. "We will go through the routine in Act 2 scene 5 one more time." She turned to walk a bit farther away from the stage to get a better view. When she once again faced the stage, she added, "When you get it right, you may leave. _When_ …" she paused for dramatic effect, "You get it right." And with a crack of her baton on the auditorium floor, the music sounded and the ballerinas began their dance.

It had been a long day at the opera house, with punishing rehearsals and tedious costume fittings. Babette Sorelli seemed to find the utmost glee in picking at her latest victim Giselle, and mostly steered clear of Annie. But there had been a couple times when Annie had felt someone's eyes trained upon her, and she would look up to find Babette's icy blue orbs shooting daggers in her direction. Remembering Erik's sage words from the night before, Annie met Babette's gaze with a glare of her own, and held her stare until Babette was forced to smirk and look away.

Still Annie refused to let Babette Sorelli ruin her day. She found that she was greatly enjoying being at the opera house. Madame Delacroix was strict—it was true—but she was also fair, and Annie had a feeling that she would learn a great deal under her tutelage. The other girls still paid her little attention, most likely not wishing to incur Babette's wrath—but a few of them _had_ nodded to her today, and the kindly Marie actually spared a brief smile. In time, she thought, she might be able to fit in.

Though she had taken her noon meal alone, she truly hadn't minded, since it had given her time to think about Erik. She worried a little when she thought of him on the streets of Paris trying to find a construction job. She sincerely hoped that he had not had to face any cruelty from the people he came into contact with today. But Erik was strong and she knew he could handle himself.

Mostly, when she thought of him, her heart swelled—remembering the way he had pampered her last night with the foot massage and the cuddles. True, she had begun the evening upset with him, but her anger at Erik could never last. She _far_ preferred loving him. And now, with the new encouragement she had taken from the ballerinas' words to Giselle, soon they might be able to embark on a new way of loving each other that would allow them to become even closer.

Just as the music stopped for the third time and Madame Delacroix finally deemed that the routine was rehearsed enough for the night, Annie heard muffled voices above her from the direction of Box 5. Bracing herself for the worst, and wondering once again just how Erik had managed to tear the curtain off its hangings, Annie turned her head toward the noise. A small group of men, including the two managers she had met at her audition, seemed to be discussing the repairs that needed to be made. When one of them moved slightly to the side, she saw that another man, with a familiar face and blond curls was standing in the box as well.

When Giles Giry noticed Annie on the stage, his face brightened into a wide smile and he waved vigorously to her from the box. Annie returned his smile politely, but felt it fade from her face as she saw him gesture for her to wait. "Well, would you look at that," a familiar know-it-all voice purred in her ear. Annie turned to see Babette twirling her ponytail around her finger and looking up to Box 5, as Giles Giry hurriedly turned and moved out of the box. "Seems that your 'brother dear' has returned." And with a cheeky smirk, Babette followed the other girls and exited the stage.

 **AN: Looks like Annie managed to do a little research of her own, thanks to poor Giselle's discomfort. But, Erik's hopes at gainful employment were thwarted by prejudice-and Giles Giry is back! I am sure he'll be delighted to see his favorite ballerina!**


	27. Chapter 27

CH 27

"Mademoiselle Laramie!" Annie turned to her right, as she heard her name. Giles Giry was bounding up the steps of the stage, panting to catch his breath, obviously having run all the way from Box 5.

"Good evening, Monsieur Giry," Annie nodded and smiled politely.

"It is a good evening indeed!" he flashed her another of his enormous smiles, and she thought he looked rather much like the golden retriever with endless energy and long flouncy hair who was featured in one of the books her father used to read her as a child. "I returned this afternoon to discover that you have, indeed, become a member of the Corps du Ballet! This is wonderful news."

Annie could not help but giggle at his enthusiasm.

"So how are you getting along here?" he asked, conversationally. "How are the other girls treating you?"

"They are fine," Annie said plainly, with a tight smile.

"And Madame Delacroix? Tell me," he asked leaning in and lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Is she quite the dragon lady that she seems to be?"

Surprised that he would ask such a question, Annie gave a hearty laugh. "No! Madame is very strict—very… _exacting_ —but she is fair. And a fine teacher."

"That is good to hear," he smiled warmly. "You seem to be settling in rather well here at the Garnier. I am pleased that I did not mention your name to my colleagues in vain," he told her amiably. "It is not for just anyone that I am willing to put in a good word."

Annie's face fell a little at his admission. "You mentioned my name to your colleagues?"

"Yes I did," he said proudly. "I told them to be on the lookout for a girl named Antoinette Laramie who was coming to audition for the ballet."

"Why did you mention my name?" she asked, her eyes narrowing in confusion. "I had hoped to earn the position on my own merits, sir."

"Oh, but you _did_!" he assured her. "You did! On my honor," he put his right hand over his heart. "I never instructed them to hire you, I simply said you would be coming in for an audition while I was away. When I returned this afternoon, they raved about what a fantastic dancer you are." Looking a bit sheepish, he added, "I am only sorry that business kept me away and that I did not get to see your audition myself."

"Well, even Madame Delacroix did not see my audition," Annie told him sweetly, "So you are in good company."

With a chuckle, Giles replied, "Yes, it would appear that I am." Giles looked down at the floor and sighed before cocking his head to the side and asking, "Would you…perhaps…care to show me…one of your dances…right now?" Giles Giry's hand came up to scratch the back of his head nervously as his cheeks colored crimson.

Annie looked down and smiled before saying, "Monsieur Giry, it is late. I'm just going to return these shoes and then I must be getting home."

"Return the shoes?" Giles asked in surprise, latching on to that insignificant bit of information to deflect from the awkward request he had made. "Don't most of the ballerinas have their own shoes?"

Annie nodded, "Well, yes, but these are loaners, until I can afford my own."

"Oh," Giles nodded, looking down at her pink toe shoes instead of her face. "And they are serving you well?"

Annie found Giles Giry's inordinate interest in her satin slippers to be a bit odd, but she humored him, given the fact that he was both her landlord and one of her bosses. "Yes, sir. They are fine. A little tight, perhaps, but they will do until I receive my wages."

"Ah, yes," Giles nodded, rocking on his heels, seemingly at a loss for what to say next.

Taking that as her cue to exit, Annie began, "Well, I really should be going…"

"Oh yes, I suppose you must be getting home to tend to your brother?"

Annie nodded, hating that she had to perpetuate the lie that Erik loathed. "Yes."

"How _is_ your brother, by the way?" Giles asked. "He seemed a bit tense when last we spoke."

"Oh, he's fine!" Annie replied with a fake smile, remembering how Erik was decidedly not fine when Giles had seen him last. "He was just…settling in the other night. But he's probably wondering where I am, so…"

"Ah yes," Giles nodded. "Of course."

"I'll see you tomorrow," Annie smiled, beginning to walk toward the stage exit.

"Likely not, actually," Giles called after her. "I am leaving again in the morning on business. I'm traveling so much these days, actually, that it might be opening night before I finally see you dance."

With a smile, she reminded him, "Well, that is coming sooner than you think!" She headed again toward the exit as she called over her shoulder, "Safe travels, Monsieur Giry."

* * *

When Annie walked outside, Erik was not under the streetlight. Knowing her beloved well, however, she trained her eyes toward the shadows that surrounded the nearby buildings and saw him leaning against a wall, clinging to the cover the darkness would provide. Barely able to contain her excitement at seeing him at the end of a long day, Annie's quickened her steps until she reached his side. "Erik!" she said, opening her arms to pull him into an embrace, but as soon as his golden eyes met hers, she saw the dejection and the sorrow that lay hidden within them.

He stared at her wordlessly for a moment, and Annie knew all she needed to know. The search for employment had not gone as he had hoped, and as he stood before her, she could see that his spirit was broken.

"Come on, Erik," she whispered, taking his hand in hers, and twining their fingers together. "Let's go home."

They walked home silently, as they had the night before, Annie never letting go of his hand. When they were finally inside their little cottage, Erik removed his cloak and hat, hanging them on the hook near the door, but Annie noticed that he left his mask in place. He silently ambled over to the settee and took a seat, leaning his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands.

Annie walked over and placed a log in the hearth, starting their evening fire the way she had many times back at her stepfather's farmhouse. Looking back at Erik, in the glow from the flame, she could see that his hands and his arms were filthy, so she slipped into the kitchen and warmed some water on the range, grabbing a clean rag while she was waiting. When she returned to the parlor, she knelt before Erik with her basin, as he had done for her the night before, and she slowly reached up to take one of his hands in hers, pulling it away from his face. Gently, she ran the warm rag over his arm, removing the layer of grime that had obscured his skin, before repeating her actions on the other arm. Erik's eyes scrutinized her as she worked, and when her dark eyes came up to meet his golden ones, Annie could see tears gathering within them.

She lifted her arms and wordlessly reached behind his head to untie his mask. "Not between us, Erik," she murmured, removing the offending garment, and placing it on the couch beside him. "Never between us."

"Why do you love me, Annie?" Erik asked, his voice hitching on the tears he was trying so hard to fight.

Annie dipped her cloth back into the water and squeezed it out before reaching up to tenderly wipe his face. "I love you for your genius, Erik. I love you for your music. I love the way you make me laugh, and I love the way you make my blood boil in frustration. I love the way you support me and protect me, and dream things for me that I would never ever dream for myself. Loving you is as natural to me as breathing, Erik. I love you, because I cannot stop. I will _never_ stop."

The tears finally spilled over his eyes, as they mingled with Annie's purifying water. "I don't deserve you, Annie."

"Whether or not you deserve me is immaterial, Erik," Annie, smiled up at him. "You _have_ me. And you always will."

"You are my angel, Annie," Erik whispered, reaching out a trembling hand to touch a strand of her hair.

"As you are mine, Erik." She assured him, leaning her cheek into his hand. "Forever my angel."

When Erik's face was sufficiently cleansed to Annie's satisfaction, she placed her rag back into the basin and rose to walk around behind the settee. Putting her hands on Erik's shoulders, she began to massage his aching muscles. "Would you like to talk about it, Erik?" she asked quietly. "About whatever it is that happened today?"

Taking comfort from Annie's healing touch, Erik released a heavy breath. "My face, Annie," he said, staring into the fire. "My face happened. Again." With a sigh, Erik related his story—and how he both gained and lost employment in the span of half a day. "They thought me a criminal, Annie—or a circus freak." Looking down, he added, "In truth, they were right about both."

"Erik Laramie," Annie scolded, using the surname for him he was so hesitant to use for himself. "You are neither one."

"I have killed, Annie," Erik argued.

"Only to save me," Annie countered, pausing a moment in her kneading.

"And I would absolutely do so again, Annie," Erik promised, as she resumed her work on his shoulders. "But to some that would make me a criminal."

"Then I am a criminal also, Erik," Annie reminded him. "For I too have had blood on my hands."

"That is different," Erik protested.

"Not even a little bit," Annie insisted.

"Well, I _was_ a circus freak, Annie," Erik said. "There is no getting around that."

"You were captured and kept in a cage, and horribly abused and tortured," she countered. "I have seen the scars, Erik. You were not the freak. Your abusers were the abominations!"

"Annie," Erik cried, flabbergasted by her ability to argue with him at every turn. "I _am_ an abomination! A horror! Just _look_ at me!"

Coming around to the front of the settee, so that she could face Erik, she placed one hand on each of his cheeks. Stroking them gently, she said with a smile, "Erik, I see you."

With a quiet moan, Erik reached up and placed a hand on the back Annie's neck, running his fingers through her hair. "I love you, Annie," he murmured, pulling her head down to his.

They held their faces there for a moment, a breath apart, simply drinking in each other's essences. Finally, Erik tilted his head up ever so slightly and joined them with a kiss.

At the first touch of their lips, Erik could feel the humiliation and degradation of the day begin to melt away, Annie's healing essence filling the emptiness in his soul. They fit their mouths together again and again, arms circling around one another, as Erik drew Annie down to rest on his lap. Erik's fingers tangled lazily in Annie's ebony waves and she shuddered at the first touch of his tongue to her lips. "Erik," she sighed against his lips, opening her mouth to him, allowing him to deepen their kiss.

"Oh, Annie," Erik moaned seconds later, leaning his head back, as she nuzzled his throat, placing tiny little kisses along his collarbone. "You take me straight from the depths of hell to the soaring height of heaven with your love."

"Then I shall keep on loving you, Erik," Annie hummed against his ear, entwining the fingers of one hand in his long black tresses, "For hell is no place for an angel to tread."

Erik kissed her again, reverently, lovingly, the pain of the day dissolving into nothingness. There was only love—only Annie—as he felt her take one of his hands gently in hers. Tentatively, she slid his palm up her torso, and placed it lightly on her breast. When Erik broke their kiss and looked questioningly in her eyes, she pressed his hand against her and nodded. "Please Erik," she whispered.

"Please what, Annie," he asked, his voice raw with passion.

"I want to try again," she told him, as she placed her hands gently over his chest, hovering over the buttons of his shirt. "I want to be one with you. Please, Erik," her voice trailed off to a whisper, her eyelids fluttering closed. "Please."

To answer her plea, Erik squeezed her breast of his own accord, making certain to tease her nipple as he pulled his hand back. At Annie's sharp gasp of pleasure, Erik released a moan of his own, and they both went slowly about the business of loosening ties and releasing buttons to remove unwanted clothing from the path of their mounting desires.

"We'll go slowly, Annie," Erik panted, "I promise I won't hurt you again."

"I know, my love," she whispered. "I know."

"I want you so much, Annie," he moaned against her throat as his mouth slowly made its journey downward toward her breasts.

"I'm yours, Erik," she sighed. "I'm yours."

With a growl, Erik stood, lifting Annie in his arms. She wrapped her arms around his neck and gazed steadily into his smoldering eyes as he carried her toward the stairs. He had just mounted the first step when there came a loud knock at the door.

With eyes wide with surprise, Erik and Annie stopped and looked at one another.

"Who is that?" Annie asked him.

"I don't know," Erik answered.

"Mademoiselle Laramie," came the sound of a familiar voice from behind the door, as the knock came once again. "Pardon the intrusion, but I have something for you."

Erik's eyes darkened as the gently let Annie down. "It appears to be our esteemed landlord, Annie," he said stiffly.

"I'm sorry, Erik," Annie whispered as she quickly worked to adjust the laces on her bodice. "Just a second," she called out in a louder voice to their visitor at the door.

Erik turned and continued up to the top of the stairs, not wishing to entertain visitors in his current state of turmoil.

Smoothing her hair, and taking a deep breath, Annie hurried toward the door. Glancing once over her shoulder to make certain Erik was, in fact, out of sight, Annie opened the door. Giles Giry stood on the doorstep, a pair of leather gloves in his hands, top hat on his head.

"Good evening, Monsieur Giry," she said with a questioning smile on her face. "This is a bit of a surprise!"

"I apologize, Mademoiselle Laramie," he said, tipping his hat to her with a slight bow, a sheepish grin just starting to bloom on his lips, "but as I said at the opera house, I am travelling for business again in the morning, and I have something I wanted to give you before I left."

"Oh well, I am sure," Annie said, trying to politely hurry him along, "that since you are leaving in the morning, that you have much to do in preparation."

"Well, I am still mostly packed from my previous trip," he said with a wink, "So not as much as you might think."

"Oh well," Annie smiled tightly, gesturing toward the parlor. "Allow me to invite you in and offer you some tea, then. Please, take a seat."

"Thank you," he said one of his large smiles lighting up his features, as he removed his hat and moved past her into the foyer.

Annie watched him walk to the parlor, wishing fervently that he had simply given her this mysterious item at the doorway, or better yet, left it at the opera house for her to receive in the morning. She knew Erik was not going to take kindly to this evening visit.

"Let me just go heat some water," she said, heading toward the kitchen.

Giles smiled again and walked over to take a seat on the settee. Seeing Erik's mask as it lay there discarded on the cushion, he picked it up and curiously turned it around in his hands, inspecting it closely, and remembering, with some apprehension, its gruff owner.

In the kitchen, Annie was grateful to find that the kettle was still warm from when she had heated the water to wash Erik's hands and face. When she emerged with two cups of tea, Giles rose from the settee to greet her. Seeing that he was holding Erik's mask in his hand, Annie handed him his tea, and took the mask from him, gently placing it on the end table next to the settee.

"Will your brother be joining us for tea then, Annie?" Giles inquired, taking a sip of his drink.

"My brother wasn't feeling very well," Annie responded, hoping Giles would get the hint. "He has retired for the night."

"Oh," Giles said, leaning forward and reaching into his inner breast pocket. "I will not keep you long, then. I would hate for our conversation to disturb his slumber."

Annie smiled tightly and nodded, grateful that this interruption would soon be coming to an end.

Giles retrieved a small package wrapped in brown paper from his pocket. Holding it out toward her, he said, "I came across these at the Garnier after you left. I wanted you to have them."

Annie looked at him with a raised eyebrow as she hesitantly reached out and took the package. "Monsieur Giry, what is this?"

"Well, open it," he commanded with a smile, his blue eyes flashing with humor. "And you shall see."

Giving him one more questioning look, she turned her attention to the soft package. Laying it on her knees, she carefully tore the paper aside. A pair of brand new pink ballet slippers was revealed, their satin ribbons shimmering in the fire's glow.

"Monsieur Giry…" she stammered, gazing at the satin slippers. "I don't understand…"

"They are a size larger than the pair you had been borrowing, Mademoiselle Laramie," he explained, as she continued to stare at the shoes. "I may be merely a manager at the opera house, but even I know that it is not good to dance in toe shoes that are too tight."

"I told you, Monsieur Giry," she said, looking up at him in confusion. "I was planning on buying my own pair."

"And now you don't have to," he informed her with a disarming smile.

"I cannot accept your charity, Monsieur Giry," she said, shaking her head and beginning to wrap the shoes back in the paper in which they had been enclosed to hand them back to him.

"Again, Mademoiselle Laramie," Giles said, quickly finishing his tea. "Think of it as a business investment. I cannot have one of my best dancers damaging her feet." He set his cup on the end table, and stood from his place on the settee. Pulling on his leather gloves, he began to walk toward the door.

"Monsieur Giry," Annie protested, rising from the settee and following after him, toe shoes in her hand. "You have never even seen me dance!"

"A fact I intend to remedy on opening night, Mademoiselle." He said placing his hat back on his head, and reaching for the door. "Take the shoes and wear them well. I greatly look forward to seeing them grace your feet on the gala night." And before Annie could argue further, Giles took her hand in his and pressed his lips gently to its back. "Good night, Mademoiselle Laramie," he nodded to her as he walked through the door to his carriage. With a little wave, he drove off into the night.

Taking a deep breath to calm her somewhat rattled nerves, Annie closed the cottage door behind her, loudly pulling the bolt to lock it. She hurriedly made for the stairs and climbed up to the bedroom she shared with Erik, only to see him lying on his side of the bed, facing the wall. Dropping the shoes on the small dresser, she sat on the edge of the bed, and reached over to rub Erik's back.

"Erik," she said softly. "Erik, he's gone."

"I know, Annie," Erik murmured quietly, not turning toward her. "I heard the door."

"Erik…" Annie called again, laying down on the bed next to him, and wishing for nothing more than to resume where they had left off before Giles' visit had interrupted them. She draped an arm around his waist and gently kissed his neck.

"It's late, Annie," Erik answered stiffly. "You have a long day of work ahead you tomorrow, breaking in new ballet shoes. You should probably get some rest."

Annie closed her eyes and felt the heat of a searing poker settle in her chest. "Erik, I did not ask him here. What was I supposed to do?"

"You did the only thing you _could_ do, Annie," Erik responded flatly. "This is, after all, his house."

Annie sighed, knowing that _this_ dark mood of Erik's would not be so easy to shake.

"Erik, I am giving the shoes back. As soon as I get to the opera house in the morning, I will leave them in his office."

"Why ever would you do that, Annie?" Erik asked. "After all, you are one of _his_ best dancers."

With a frustrated groan, Annie flounced over to lie flat on her back. "Why must you be angry with me, Erik? I had nothing to do with his actions tonight."

Erik was quiet a moment, for in his heart, he _knew_ that was true. Annie was blameless for Giles Giry's forwardness. And as far as Giry knew, he wasn't overstepping any bounds either, since he believed Erik to be Annie's injured brother, and not her horribly disfigured fiancé.

Yet Erik could not get past the fact, that once again, Giry was providing Annie with something that he had not been able to give her himself. He had no doubt of Annie's love—she made her loyalty to him quite clear every minute of every day. But was he truly worthy of it?

Annie deserved the world—but what could Erik give her? He could not give her a home—another man had seen to that. He could not give her the things she needed to properly do her job—he had not even known she was lacking. And yet, another man _had_ known and had seen to that as well. Erik had promised Annie a future. But would _he_ be the man that could give her one?

"I am not angry, Annie," Erik said at last in a small voice. "But it was a long and fruitless day, and I am tired. I just want to rest."

"Fine," Annie huffed, She rose from the bed to remove her dress, and visit the water closet, before climbing under the covers once more. But even through her annoyance, she turned to face Erik, and wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling him close. "I love you, Erik," she murmured, placing a kiss on the back of his head. "I will love you and your stubborn ways forever."

"I know, Annie," he whispered back, feeling the tears pool in his eyes. "I love you too." He felt Annie nestle her head snugly against his back, and eventually her breathing became steady and deep, letting Erik know that she had succumbed to slumber. Staring at the wall, as his tears fell silently, Erik didn't sleep at all.

 **AN: Dang it Giles! You NEED to work on your timing!**

 **Speaking of timing, Happy New Year!**


	28. Chapter 28

CH 28

Erik must have rolled over at some point during the night, because as Annie's senses began to rouse her from slumber, she felt his strong arms wrapped around her. Sighing contentedly, Annie let her fingers trail lazily to his chest. Unfastening the buttons on his nightshirt, she placed small kisses to his cool skin, as she heard a low groan of pleasure rumble in his chest. His arms tightened around her and she felt his fingers playing with her hair, as her lips continued their delicious journey across his flesh. She nudged his shirt open a little more with her nose so that she could take one of his flat nipples between her teeth.

"Oh, Annie," she heard him sigh as the hand in her hair gripped her to him, and she felt him arch against her.

Annie continued to pleasure him a few precious moments more, allowing her tongue to swirl around the prize her mouth had captured, until she heard Erik exclaim, "Oh, Annie"—but this time with alarm.

Annie startled fully awake at the tone in his voice, lifting her lids only to have bright yellow sunlight scream in her eyes.  
"Oh no," she whimpered, regretfully extracting herself from Erik's embrace, and rushing to the water closet. "I'm late!"

"I'm sorry, Annie," Erik said, as he too jumped out of bed, cursing himself for allowing this to happen. He had spent the majority of the night awake and staring at the wall. Damn him for finally falling asleep only to allow Annie to wake so late. One of them actually had a job to get to.

They both dressed hurriedly, Annie pulling her hair back into a messy bun. She was by the door, yanking on her cloak, when Erik stopped her.

"You can't forget these," he said, handing her the shoes that Giles Giry had brought by the night before.

"You're right," she said, taking them from him and shoving them into an inner pocket. "I have to return them."

"No, Annie," Erik said, putting his hands on her shoulder and forcing her to stop and look at him. "Wear them. He said the other shoes were too tight. I don't want you hurting your feet because of my foolish pride."

"I am giving them back, Erik," Annie said firmly, looking Erik directly in the eyes. "Because I only accept gifts from the man I love." And turning her head slightly, she showed him that the comb he had given her all those years ago, was sitting atop her bun, holding her hair in place. When he smiled in recognition, Annie continued. " _That_ man—the man I love with my entire being—has already given me _so_ much. So I shall buy my own shoes—with my own wages—which was _always_ my intention. And these shall be waiting on Giles Giry's desk when he returns, with a note declining his kind offer."

"Annie," Erik shook his head in admiration, "I love you."

"I love you too, Erik," she told him quite seriously, taking his face between her hands. "You are the _only_ man who will _ever_ hear those words from my mouth." And bringing his face toward hers, she kissed him fully on the lips. "Even if you are stubborn."

"I prefer to think of myself as tenacious," he muttered with an adoring smile on his face.

"Bullheaded!" Annie countered.

"Determined?" he smirked

"Cantankerous, ornery, headstrong…"

"Late!" he reminded her, a mischievous gleam in his eye.

"Ugh!" Annie grunted, pulling away from him, and opening the door. "Damn!"

"How very unladylike, Antoinette," Erik said with a wry smile as he followed her outside.

Annie glared at him with a look that said she had barely scratched the surface of her unladylike potential, and Erik laughed heartily as soon as he saw it.

"To hell with the clock," he growled, pulling her completely into his arms, and kissing her deeply on the mouth. "I just had to do that," he whispered, as they both broke away, breathless, "before I am bound to resume the role of your brother."

"I am so sorry I told them that, Erik," Annie told him sincerely, as they began their walk, a bit more swiftly than usual. "We are going to have to think of some way to explain it after we marry."

"We will think of something, my love," Erik responded, knowing in his heart that explaining the true nature of his relationship to Annie was the least of his worries. By the time people at the opera house needed an explanation, they would already be married, and at that point, any question about her reputation would be moot.

But before they could get to that point—before Erik could, in good conscience, take Annie as his wife—he needed to be able to support her. He knew such things didn't matter to his beloved at all, but Erik was finding that the need to provide for Annie and give her the life she deserved was becoming an all-consuming obsession.

When Giry had given Annie those blasted shoes, it had cut him to the bone. No other man should have to give Annie what _he_ should be providing for her himself. It was a testament to Annie's strength of character that she would return the gift—choosing instead to cause herself discomfort rather than damaging Erik's pride. But Erik did not want that. He wanted to give her the shoes himself—except that the monthly rent for the cottage had taken up a good bit of the money they'd earned at the market, and they had to save all they could for the following month, because Erik would sooner live on the streets than accept Giles Giry's charity. Except. . .

Erik would never see Annie destitute on the streets of Paris. For _her_ , he had to find a way to earn money, so that he could continue to pay for the cottage—for now—and put enough away so that they could find a place to live with no ties to anyone but themselves. Only at that point could he finally marry her—when he was truly his own man.

And of course, Erik wanted to give Annie a ring…

 _Get some experience._ The words of the foreman rang in Erik's mind, as they had over and over again during the night when he had been staring blankly at the wall. _Get some experience._ Erik would love to get some experience in the building trade, but he did not know how he was going to do that, if no one in Paris would give him the opportunity. Most builders had spent their youth—those precious, formative years that Erik had spent locked in a cage—apprenticed to a master, learning the craft. At Erik's age of 18, he was already too old for that, and he could only hope for someone to give him a chance. But even when someone did, like the gruff but kindly foreman, his face and his mask managed to ruin it.

 _People's minds in other places might not be as closed as they are here._ What good did other places do him? It was true, Erik did not have as much trouble finding meager employment when he and Annie had lived near Toulouse—but Annie's dreams were tied to Paris now. There was no way Erik would ever ask her to leave so that he might be able to go to some far off land to gain experience in his desired field. She had already been asked to leave one home that she loved. He would never ask her to do it now, especially as opening night loomed ever closer. Her dreams were finally within reach. No, he could not ask Annie to leave Paris. But then again, perhaps, _Annie_ didn't have to leave.

 _Get yourself some training and then come back._ Erik felt a chill spread throughout his insides at the very thought. Could he even consider leaving without her? Preposterous! Even if there _were_ builders in other parts of the world that would hire him, the thought of leaving Annie to seek out experience was the most ludicrous thing he could ever imagine. He would not even know how to live without her—his heart could hardly be expected to continue beating without seeing her smile first thing in the morning or feeling her tender kiss last thing at night.

"Erik, are you alright?"

Jarred out of his terrifying thoughts by Annie's concerned voice, Erik realized he was shaking. Leaving was a terrible idea—an impossible solution. There had to be some other way.

"I am alright, my love," Erik assured her, as she continued to regard him with a worried expression.

"But you look ill," Annie pressed.

"I am just tired, love," Erik promised with a little smile. Looking around him, he realized they were about a block away from the opera house. "Well, it looks like this is where I must say goodbye, my darling."

Erik saw Annie shudder visibly at his choice of words. "Never say goodbye, Erik!" she scolded. " _Never_."

"Only for the day, my love," he smiled at her, comfortingly, knowing he could never survive longer than that without her. "Only for the day." And then, knowing that she had to continue without him, he added, desperately, "Annie, how I wish I could take you in my arms right now and kiss your luscious lips, but . . ."

"I know, I know," Annie groaned, feeling her insides burn for just that very thing. "You're my brother!"

Leaning down to place a peck on her cheek, he murmured in her ear. "I'll be waiting for you tonight, darling."

With a wide smile, Annie repeated, "Tonight," before turning and walking to the opera house.

* * *

"Ah, Mademoiselle Laramie," the Madame Delacroix said, walking through the line of ballerinas that were postured on their toes when Annie arrived in the rehearsal room. Morning stretching had already been completed and the ballet mistress was running the girls through the routine in Scene 8. In short, Annie was very, very late. "I had wondered if you were planning on joining us today. I would have sent someone to check on you, but, of course, you do not reside in the dormitories, so…"

"Madame Delacroix," Annie said in a penitent voice. "I am very sorry. My brother had been ill last night, and he still was not feeling well this morning, so I wanted to make sure he was alright before leaving."

"I see," Madame said, cracking her baton near the feet of a ballerina who had not quite achieved full pointe. "Well, while I find your devotion to your family member admirable, you must remember that dedication is required here as well."

"I promise you, I shall, Madame."

"That would be wise," Madame Delacroix warned. "For our patron, the count, will be present for our full company rehearsal on Friday. Even friends in high places will not assure you a spot in the ballet line on opening night if you do not know the routine by then."

"I understand, Madame," Annie nodded.

"Go change!" Madame commanded, by way of dismissal.

"Yes Madame," Annie said as she walked toward the dressing room, hearing Babette Sorelli snicker as she went by.

* * *

After leaving Annie at the opera house, Erik walked about town again, desperately trying to seek out some type of employment, but everywhere he went, he was met with the same answer. "We're not looking for help right now." "We have everyone that we need." "We need someone with experience."—Every answer was a valid excuse, except that Erik saw the looks of distrust on the faces that were turning him away. He knew his mask was closing doors before him as surely as his lack of experience was. If Erik was to find a job, something was going to have to change—and it certainly wasn't going to be his face.

By the middle of the day, he found himself back where he had started, outside the opera house, feeling frustrated and agitated. Once again, he had failed Annie—once again he had spent the day trying to further their future, and he had nothing to show for it. No one had even gone so far as the foreman had yesterday to offer him but a chance to prove himself.

He thought about going back to the site of the de Chagny build. He considered going before the men there and simply removing his mask—showing them exactly why he wore it. But images filled his mind of the builders running in terror from the sight of him. And chances were, they wouldn't come back. He could not find it in himself to do that to the kindly foreman who was the only one who _had_ given him a chance.

 _There had to be some other way_ , he thought, as he paced back and forth, two fingers pinching the bridge of what should have been his nose in concentration. There must be some method—some other means that he hadn't yet considered—by which he could earn money. All he needed to do was think.

Erik looked up and regarded the stately building before him—considering the secrets that hid behind its walls and beneath its floorboards. If nothing else, Erik thought, it would be a place of solitude—a place where he could consider what options might lay before him.

Blending in with the crowd was a task that Erik was becoming accustomed to, and as he had never been one to draw undue attention to himself, he was finding it to be rather simple. When he reached Box 5, he did have a moment of panic, worrying that they might have chosen to lock the door after fixing the curtain, but to his great relief, he found the entrance as unencumbered as it had always been. Quickly liberating the lantern from the wall, Erik lit the flame, then pressed the lever that would allow him to enter a world of darkness.

Once closed within the secret passageways behind the opera house, Erik felt his sense of adventure begin to tingle. Perhaps this was exactly the type of distraction he needed in order for his mind to think of a solution to his employment dilemma. Coming to the end of the first staircase, instead of again finding his way down to the lake, Erik decided to turn right. To see what other intrigues the opera house had to offer.

The tunnel was narrow, and just as unfinished as the rest of the walkways, but from time to time, Erik could hear sounds as they carried over from the other side of the walls. Erik wondered…if there was an entrance into this secret world of darkness from Box 5, could there be other entrances—and exits—as well? Coming upon a spot where he could hear bits and pieces of a rather satisfied discussion about ticket sales, Erik approached the wall for a closer look. Holding up his lantern for a better view, he found that this wall looked just as rough and unfinished as any of the others. But there—just a bit below eye level—he saw a depression in the stone that looked like…well it almost looked like a handle! If he placed his fingers in just right and pushed…

A square shaped section of the wall slid soundlessly to the left, and a man's face looked directly back at him! It was one of the managers at the Garnier—one of the two who had hired Annie. Erik startled back in horror when he saw him, knowing that he had let Annie down. This was even worse than the incident with the curtain. Surely the managers would launch an investigation into the strange masked man behind the wall, and once Giles Giry identified him as Annie's brother, everything would be over for her.

"I'm sorry, Annie," he breathed, trying to shrink out of sight. "I'm so sorry, my love."

But seconds passed and the conversation continued, with no words of alarm to indicate that the manager had noticed anything amiss—not a strange masked man…not even a sudden hole in the wall. Stealthily, Erik crept back to the opening, to find the manager busily adjusting his tie as he rolled up his lips and jutted out his mouth, apparently to check for something lurking between his teeth.

Erik pulled his head back, a rather disgusted expression on his face as the manager finished with his tie and went on to smooth his hair, as if he were looking in a…

"Mirror?" Erik whispered out loud, as the manger winked at what Erik was beginning to suspect was his own reflection. Finally turning to his partner, who had been waiting for him on the other side of the office, he opened the door and the two men took their leave—each of them quite oblivious about the hole in the wall through which they had just been observed.

His fear of being detected now quite assuaged, Erik inspected the opening more closely. It was a perfect square, and though it was below eye level for him, for a man of average size, it would be positioned at the perfect height for primping and preening one's appearance—as it appeared the manager had just done. Erik reached out his hand carefully, and just as he expected, he touched glass. "Will Garnier's genius never cease?" Erik exclaimed in awe, as he ran his fingers along the edge of the glass. "This is extraordinary!"

And so it was. Erik realized he was looking at a two-way mirror. It seemed like a window on his side of the wall, but when the occupants on the other side looked upon it, they could only see their reflections. Erik examined the little sliding door he had moved to reveal the mirror. Even with the wall's rough finish, the movement on the door had been completely soundless—never alerting the manager to its existence. Erik chuckled to himself in wonder at Garnier's ingenuity. This was a perfect tool for undetected observation—and he wondered why it had been incorporated into the design—and if the element existed anywhere else in the building.

Keen to explore what other surprises might be discovered in the innards of the opera house, Erik slid the little compartment shut, and continued down the tunnel.

Descending another staircase at the end of the passageway, Erik found himself behind what he assumed would be the preparation area for the performers. He could hear tittering and laughter, and somebody practicing scales—badly—behind the walls as he glided through the hidden hallway, and in one spot he heard rhythmic counting accompanied by the tapping of a cane. This must be the ballet rehearsal room, Erik thought with a smirk, and shining his lantern before him, Erik began to scrutinize the markings on the wall, wondering if there were, indeed a mirror through which he could watch his Annie rehearse.

He was busy trying to find a similar handle in the wall, when he heard, from behind him, the sounds of rattling and muffled groaning—as if someone was being hurt. His protective side surfaced immediately, afraid that some harm might possibly be coming to his beloved, and he dashed to where he had heard the sound, examining the wall for a handle. When he found it, he wasted no time in tripping the mechanism—intent as he was on helping whatever hapless victim he found on the other side, fervently praying it wouldn't be Annie.

It wasn't.

A section of the wall slid to the side—a longer one this time; more like a door than a window—and Erik's mouth dropped open at the scene that unfolded before him.

A man with light brown hair, and pants hanging at his ankles, was pounding with great alacrity against a woman with a long blond ponytail who was bent over a dressing table, her pink tutu lifted high around her waist. The man's hands were pawing at the woman's bosom, and she appeared to be meeting his lustful assault with great enthusiasm. Erik felt his cheeks grow hot when he heard the woman cry out, "God, yes, Philippe! That's _exactly_ how I like it!"

Hurriedly shutting the sliding door, Erik felt a little queasy when he heard the groans—which he now knew to be expressions of extreme pleasure—continue to mount. He hastened down the remainder of the hallway, greatly desiring to escape the carnality that he had just witnessed, desperately trying not to imagine himself and Annie in a similar embrace.

Erik continued to amble through the passageways—looking for secret openings in the walls, and finding too many to count. They were everywhere, it seemed—behind vanity tables, hanging on the walls like pictures—everywhere a mirror could be hung, it seemed, there was a way to observe from the other side. The larger mirrors, Erik noted, also had handles on the inside, and in one empty dressing room, Erik slid the mirror aside, to discover that it did, in fact, function as a door. There were entryways and exits into this dark little world literally all over the Garnier. Luckily for him, he did not stumble upon any more untoward activities in his explorations. One lascivious surprise was quite enough for the day.

When Erik was making his way back to box five, late in the afternoon, he heard a sickly saccharine voice on the other side of the wall that made his ears prick with attention.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Antoinette Laramie—Giles Giry's little pet."

"Excuse me, Babette," Annie's unimpressed voice sounded from the other side of the wall, as Erik frantically looked for a handle that would lead to an opening. "But I have business here that doesn't concern you."

Finally, Erik found a handle, and pushed it aside, to reveal an office—much like the one in which the managers had been talking earlier in the day. Annie was standing just inside the door, looking rather tired, the wrapped pair of pointe shoes in her hand. The blond woman who had been rather vigorously engaged with "Philippe" earlier in the day was there as well. Thankfully, her tutu was now covering all that it was supposed to cover, but the venomous tone in her voice was quite apparent.

"I would have thought you'd have handled all _your_ business with Monsieur Giry before he left on his trip," she answered with a snotty little laugh. "Isn't that the _real_ reason you were late this morning? Too busy giving Giles the proper send off?"

Erik felt his blood boiling at the blonde's insinuations, and the look of abject disgust on Annie's face told him she felt similarly. "How dare you imply such a thing, Babette?" she asked in outrage. "As I explained to Madame Delacroix this morning, my brother was feeling poorly and I had to tend to his needs before I left."

Erik remembered exactly how Annie had been tending to his needs that morning and felt a pang of guilt run through him at the memory. If he had not been so sullen the night before, they might have gotten out of the cottage on time this morning.

"Oh please!" Babette responded. "Nobody believes that ridiculous ruse about your brother. Everybody knows the only reason you got special dispensation from Giles Giry to live outside of the dormitories is because he wants you there to warm his own bed at night."

"That is a lie!" Annie spat, looking every bit as stricken as Erik felt.

Babette giggled, "Sure it is! Is that why you're here, in his office, when everybody else has gone back to the dorms for the night?"

"I am merely returning something of his," Annie informed her.

"Oh, did he leave something at the cottage last night?" Babette asked, a haughty smirk on her face. "Something, unmentionable, perhaps?"

Erik glowered at her from behind the wall, and it was a very good thing that the opening in this office was more of a window. Erik could not be sure that he wouldn't have just walked right through the wall to give this little chit a piece of his mind for treating Annie with such disrespect.

"Babette Sorelli," Annie asked, an angry edge to her voice. "What is your problem with me? You have been hateful to me from the moment I started here, and I don't understand why. I have never done anything to you."

"You know, Giles Giry is known for sleeping with whomever he pleases," Babette said cattishly, "But I did not expect him to insert one of his little pets where she doesn't belong. We all worked hard to get where we are."

"I worked hard too!" Annie insisted.

"Yes, but we worked on our toes," Babette spat. "Not on our backs!"

Erik flinched when he heard the crack of Annie's hand connecting with Babette's cheek. He could not deny a sense of pride at the look of irritation that came over the vile woman's face when she touched her finger to her mouth only to pull it back and see blood.

"Well," Babette said in an icy tone. "I sure hope someone has warned Monsieur Giry that his little kitten has claws."

Erik's pride faded into dismay when he saw the frustrated tears in Annie's eyes as she pointed a finger at Babette and insisted in a shaky voice, "I am _not_ sleeping with Giles Giry! He has never laid a finger on me! He is merely a kind man who happened to take pity on me and my _brother_! He did not get me this job! He is not my lover! He is just a man who understood, in his kindness, that I could not stay in the dormitories because of Erik! My _brother_! And you!" she added, tears beginning to spill over onto her face. "You are a vile, hateful, spiteful, disgusting woman! And I would thank you never to speak to me again!"

Annie stormed over to the large wooden desk in the center of the room and tossed the shoes on top. Then she brushed past the overbearing ballerina, wiping her eyes with her fingertips on her way out the door.

Babette watched Annie go, curling her lips in a wicked little grin. She turned and walked over to the desk and put her hand out to inspect the package that Annie had tossed on it. Before she could touch it, however, a ghostly voice warned her, "Get out, Babette Sorelli."

Looking up and all around her, she called out, "Who is that? Who is there?"

Taking advantage of the rumors that were circulating through the opera house, Erik harnessed all the anger, irritation, and outrage he felt for the way this girl had just mistreated Annie, into one great deafening boom as he shouted "GET OUT!" and then laughed—in as ghostly a manner as possible—while Babette Sorelli fled, shrieking, from the room.

 **AN: Well, it looks like the opera ghost has spoken! LOUDLY, ha ha. (Babette's lucky that's ALL he did, since he was messing with Annie.) And, oh, what an eyeful he got earlier. Kind of serves him right for snooping around...**


	29. Chapter 29

CH 29

"Erik, what on earth happened today?" Annie asked as soon as they had entered the cottage, hands firmly placed on her hips.

The question had been burning in her mind all during the walk home from the opera house, but she dared not ask until they were behind closed doors.

"Annie," Erik asked, trying to seem innocent as he hung their cloaks on the hooks. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean, Erik!" She insisted, not believing his innocent routine for a minute. "At the opera house. You were there—in Monsieur Giry's office. Don't even try to deny it. All of the girls heard, and they are in an uproar over this… this…" Annie threw her hands up in exasperation finally blurting, "opera ghost!"

Erik regarded her for a moment before gently taking her hands in his. "Come," he bid her, as he guided her toward the settee. Once they were seated facing one another, Erik began, "I have a lot to tell you."  
"Yes," Annie agreed, "I think you do."

With a sigh, Erik began his tale. "The other day—when I was in Box 5 and the curtain fell…"

"Oh yes," Annie interjected, remembering that he'd never quite explained how he'd managed to make it fall. "And how _did_ that happen?"

"That is rather irrelevant," Erik answered, still not quite ready to tell her how he'd managed to pull the curtain down. "A bit of clumsiness on my part. Regardless, when I heard footsteps in the hall, I knew I had to disappear. I remembered the lever, Annie, above the mirror in the antechamber, and I knew it was my only way to keep from being discovered. I quickly tripped it and stepped into the tunnels that you and I had fallen into after your audition, and my sense of adventure getting the best of me, I decided to have a look around.

"What I found was incredible, Annie. Charles Garnier was a true mastermind—and the extent of his brilliance is not even known by most. Beyond the walls of the opera house, Annie, lies a true labyrinth—a secret world of tunnels and passageways hewn from stone. There is even an underground lake!" Grabbing her hand, Erik's eyes softened a moment when he said, "The deepest cellar reminded me of our cave, Annie. I felt like I was home."

Annie's eyes shone a moment when she remembered the serene beauty of their former home in the forest, and in truth, she was incredibly intrigued by all that Erik said. It still did not explain, however, what had happened in Giles Giry's office.

"This is all amazing, Erik," Annie told him, "But I still do not understand how you managed to be in the office today—and how you managed to scare Babette."

"Well, I have not told you everything yet, Annie," he said, excited now to finish his tale. "All around this hidden world, there are windows and entrances into the main parts of the opera house—which appear to be linked to mirrors. While in the building one would look into the mirror and only see one's reflection, while an observer in the tunnels can take a glimpse into the daily events of the Opera Garnier quite undetected. I discovered these portals completely by accident," Erik admitted, remembering the rather distasteful encounter he had had with the manager tending to his appearance.

Annie looked back at him, her face twisted a bit in confusion. "Why on earth would someone build such a thing?"

Shaking his head, Erik said, "I admit, I do not know, Annie. But today, after I tried," Erik lowered his eyes from hers for a moment, "and failed, again, to find employment, I needed a place to consider my situation. My intention was to go sit by the lake and think—but I started exploring the tunnels, and got carried away. When I heard your voice behind the wall of Giry's office, I found the opening to the secret observation point in the room, and I watched.

"I must admit, I was rather proud of you, Annie, when you slapped that awful girl in the face!" Erik said with a smirk.

"It was quite satisfying," Annie answered, though she looked more aggravated than satisfied.

"I continued to watch her after you left—and she was about to unwrap the package to see what you had left on Giry's desk. It was none of her business, so I merely suggested she go. Rather forcefully."

"I'll say," Annie chuckled a bit to herself. "She looked scared to death when she emerged from that office!"

"She…was awful to you," Erik said, squeezing her hand sympathetically. "I am so sorry to have put you in the position of being mistrusted and ridiculed by your peers."

Annie looked at Erik in surprise. "Erik, how could you possibly blame yourself for what Babette said?"

"I am the reason, Annie, that you are _not_ living in the dormitories. I am the reason that you were late this morning. Perhaps it would be better for you if you did board at the Opera Garnier…"

"Don't even say it, Erik." Annie warned, lifting a finger to his mouth. "I do not want this job if it means having to be separated from you." But with a sigh, she added, "Still, if I am to dance at the Garnier, _I_ need to be there on time in the mornings—and all of the girls need to be able to concentrate. Opening night will be here soon, and we have a full company rehearsal on Friday for the Count and his two sons."

"The Count de Chagny?" Erik asked in surprise. "Why would you be rehearsing for them?"

"The Count is the major patron for the opera house. His elder son Philippe spends quite a bit of time at the opera house, actually, since he is involved with one of the dancers."

"Philippe?" Erik asked, eyebrow raised, his cheeks turning a bit red at the memory of what he had witnessed between Philippe and Babette. "Why would the son of a Count be involved with that vile, disgusting girl?"

"Erik!" Annie scolded him. "Giselle may not be my friend, but she is not vile or disgusting. I rather take pity on her. Babette teases her—quite harshly—all the time."

Erik nodded slowly, as the situation began to make itself clear. "I see."

"I hope you also see that we cannot have any more distractions from the 'ghost,'" she added. "If we are to do well at this rehearsal and if we are to be successful on opening night, the company needs to focus."

"I see that, my love," Erik said with a smile and a quick kiss. Annie was just about to wrap her arms around his neck, when he stood up from the couch and began to make his way to the kitchen.

"Erik," she called after him. "What are you doing?"

"I am going to make you a quick dinner, and then I am going to tuck you into bed. You have to be at work early tomorrow, my little Prima Ballerina."

* * *

Erik strolled the marketplace once again, daring to hope that he might find some opportunity for work among the many shopkeepers there who endlessly hawked their wares. He soon discovered, however, that though merchants were happy to interact with him when he was handing them his money in exchanges for goods, they were swift to shake their heads at his request for employment.

No closer to his goal of finding a job, Erik wandered the market, hands in his pockets, head hung low, as he considered his situation. _People's minds in other places might not be as closed as they are here._ The foreman's words came back to him once more, still, the idea of leaving—of ever living apart from Annie—was something he could not even consider. He needed her, like he needed air to fill his lungs, and even if he were willing, he knew she would never agree to the idea. There had to be some other way. It was then when Erik was lost in his thoughts, desperate to find some way to better his situation, that a flash of color in the window of a cobbler's shop caught his eye.

There it lay, among the line of men's leather dress shoes and women's lace up boots—a ballet pointe shoe made of the palest pink, satin ribbons falling from it in a shimmery trail. Erik's mind immediately went to Annie, and to the package she had lain on Giles Giry's desk. She had refused to keep the ballet slippers, for she knew how the gift wounded Erik's pride. But he _had_ noticed how she rubbed her feet at night after a day of dancing in ill-fitting shoes. She had need of a good pair of dance shoes that fit her well—especially with opening night quickly approaching.

Erik stepped inside the store, and examined the delicate slipper more closely. He knew that the size was perfect for Annie, and he would love nothing more than to present her with the pair for her debut performance. But when he saw the price quoted on the little white tag pinned to the back of the shoe, Erik's face crumbled in disappointment. They still had some savings from their days at the market in Toulouse, but that money was quickly dwindling. He could not afford to spend this price on the shoes when he had the following month's rent on the cottage to consider.

 _No_ , Erik thought as he exited the store before the cobbler could approach with the gleam of a potential sale in his eyes, _I will never be able to give Annie the things she needs if I do not first find a job._

* * *

Erik found himself standing at the base of the de Chagny site. He had almost cost the foreman his crew when the kindly man had taken a chance on Erik and given him an opportunity to work. It had not worked out, because of the prejudice of others, and Erik truly did not wish to cause the kindly man any more trouble. He wished only to talk to him again. The foreman had been the one to suggest Erik seek experience elsewhere, but Erik did not know where. He had to ask the man if he had any suggestions. Certainly there must be somewhere in Paris he could turn.

It was impossible to miss the suspicious glares that were thrown in his direction as he made his way up the hill. Without a wheelbarrow full of bricks, the climb was physically much easier than it had been on his last ascent, but his anxiety grew with every step he took. Still, he forced himself to continue to the foreman's tent, and clearing his throat at the entrance, he called out, "May I come in, Sir?"

"Who is it and what do you want?" The foreman's gruff voice replied.

Erik smirked at hearing the irritated tone that belied the man's kind nature. "It is Erik, sir."

After a brief pause, the foreman's voice rang again, although this time it was less brusque. "Come in, son."

Erik pushed the flap of the tent aside and entered. The foreman was seated at his desk, looking up at him quizzically. "Please…Erik," he said, with a gesture to the chair on the other side of his desk. "Take a seat."

Unlike the last time the foreman had made that request, Erik did as the man bade. After a moment of silently studying his fingers, while the older man looked at him expectantly, Erik simply asked, "Where?"

The foreman's eyes narrowed, "Excuse me, son?"

"Where do I get this experience of which you spoke?" Erik reiterated. "I have been all through Paris—nobody, anywhere, is willing to hire a man wearing a mask. How can I get experience if I cannot be hired?"

The foreman looked at Erik sympathetically. Shaking his head, he answered, "I'm sorry, son, but I doubt that you will find a job here in Paris. The builders here—they are used to working with the cream of the crop. And while I can recognize your potential, the fact that you did not have an apprenticeship and have not built anywhere before is going to work against you. That and…" the builder's voice trailed off, not wanting to complete his sentence.

"My mask." Erik huffed, knowing that the cursed necessity was a great inhibitor to his success—in his eyes, an even greater one than his lack of experience.

"It's a shame, son," the foreman nodded grimly. "But that's how these people are. Perhaps in another city —another country…"

"But sir," Erik interrupted. "My fiance'—she is a dancer with the opera. I cannot ask her to give up her dreams. And I cannot leave her."

The foreman's eyes lit with interest, "A dancer, you say? At the Opera Garnier?"

"Yes," Erik confirmed, a bit confused why this information had obviously struck a chord with the man.

"Then you have been to the building?" The foreman asked.

"Of course," Erik nodded, wondering where this conversation was headed.

"It's fascinating, isn't it?" The foreman asked once again, in excitement.

Still a bit puzzled, Erik could not hide his own enthusiasm when he answered, "Indeed, it is, sir."

"That building," he said, shaking his head, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth, "is truly state of the art, with features most people could never dream."

Erik remained quiet, but inwardly thought, _if you only knew…_.

"The reason I mention it," the foreman continued, "is because I know Charles Garnier. He's a personal friend of mine."

"Indeed?" Erik asked, his interest now most definitely piqued.

"Yes," the foreman nodded, "and if there's one thing I know about Charles, is that he appreciates potential—no matter its form. He's about to start a new job, you know."

Erik's eyes lit up, "No, I was not aware of that!" Erik answered. "I admire Monsieur Garnier's work greatly and if you think he would accept me as an employee…"

"Oh, I have no doubt of it," the foreman answered, "especially if I write him a letter of recommendation."

Erik looked back at the foreman overjoyed. "In truth, sir, you would do that for me?"

"Yes, son," the foreman nodded. "I can tell you would not squander the opportunity—and I know how motivated you are to do well by your future bride."

Erik's heart leapt at the mention of Annie, as the image of her in a wedding dress flashed in his mind. "Oh, I definitely would not, sir. I would make you proud for having recommended me—and I would consider working with Monsieur Garnier to be a great honor."

"Then it's settled," the foreman grinned. "I'll write to Charles and tell him to expect you."

Smiling broadly at the great feeling of relief that filled his chest, Erik asked, "If I may inquire, sir, what is Monsieur Garnier's next project? And where, sir?"

"Oh, how silly of me!" the foreman responded, rolling his eyes. "He's working on a great concert hall attached to the casino in Monaco."

All of Erik's hopes dashed to the floor. "Monaco?" he asked with a suddenly dry throat.

"Well, yes," the foreman asked. "They will be much more accepting of you there. And even if the other workers are not, Charles Garnier can afford to throw his influence and name around. No one would _dare_ walk off his site."

"But…" Erik felt his chest constricting and the air leaving his lungs at the thought of traveling so far away. "That is so far away. I told you, I cannot leave my fiancé.'"

"Not even for a little while, to secure your future?" The foreman asked sensibly. "Monaco would not be forever. And once you had the experience of working for Charles Garnier under your belt, no one in Paris would turn you away—mask or not."

Erik knew the foreman spoke the truth. He knew it was an opportunity he could _not_ turn down. But in his mind, all he could see was Annie, and her lovely smile and those beautiful brown eyes that had saved his live the moment he had glanced upon them the first time. For so long, it had been just the two of them. And through all their troubles—his torturous imprisonment at the gypsy fair, and her horrific treatment at the hands of her stepfather—they had made it through together. They had forged a bond so strong—built a life that only seemed truly complete when they were at each other's sides. Could he really now live without her?

"I…" Erik said, his voice hollow. "I must consider this." He rose from the chair, not looking the foreman in the eye, still shocked at the possibility that had been laid before him.

"Do not take too long to make your choice," the foreman warned, as Erik started to go. "You do not want Garnier's crew to fill up."

"I…" Erik sighed heavily, knowing that he would have to make his decision soon. "I will give you my answer shortly. And I thank you, sir, for all the kindness you have shown me."

And with a polite nod of his head, Erik turned and was on his way.

* * *

Erik walked the tunnels behind the Opera Garnier soundlessly, lost in a world of his own thoughts. For a man who had met rejection at every turn, an incredible opportunity had now been placed in his hands. Erik had the chance to work with Charles Garnier—the very man who had crafted both the unmatched opulence of the opera house that the world got to see, and the stark intricacies of the tunnels Erik now traversed. Garnier had integrated the two so seamlessly, that only a chance occurrence had ever revealed the existence of the hidden labyrinth now lost to the world.

Erik had so many questions. Why did Garnier build the tunnels? Why did he incorporate the two-way mirrors? What purpose were they to serve—especially since the current owners of the building seemed to have no knowledge of their presence? How had it all been accomplished?

He might have the chance to ask all these questions if he agreed to the foreman's gesture of writing him a letter or recommendation—not to mention the invaluable experience he would earn, or the money he would be able to use to give Annie the life she deserved. They could move out of the cottage upon his return and they could marry—living in their own home as man and wife. Annie would make such a beautiful bride…

But a return, by its very nature, first implies a separation, and this is where Erik was uncertain. _How_ could he live without Annie? Erik had never really cared very much about living until the moment he had first looked into her eyes—dark, mysterious, beautiful eyes, that _saw_ him while all others looked away. She was as essential to him as the very air he breathed. She was the force that kept his heart beating. His main reason for opening his eyes in the morning was to look upon her resting there beside him. How could he be expected to go on living without having her near?

And hadn't Annie sworn time and again, that she didn't want this job at the opera house if it meant they would have to be parted? How would she ever let him go off to Monaco. As far as she was concerned, he knew, she would marry him as he was—a pauper. Would she ever see the importance of him finding a way to earn his own living?

Erik shook his head. No, it was absurd to even consider leaving. It could never work. _Not even for a little while, to secure your future?_ The foreman's words haunted him, and Erik groaned out loud. Stay and never have enough money to give Annie the life she deserved—leave and not be able to bear being without her. It was such an impossible circumstance!

He continued on through the tunnels, turning the situation over and over again in his head, until the sound of heated voices caught his attention.

"I cannot believe Madame Delacroix cast Antoinette Laramie as the principal dancer and not me!" came a caustic voice that Erik knew he would never forget. "You must fix it, Phillipe!"

Erik realized that he was now walking past the same area where he had happened upon that lewd display between the ballerina and the man he knew now to be the count's eldest son. Hoping fervently that the fact that they were talking and not moaning meant that they were not now engaged in just such an activity, Erik shielded his eyes and braced himself as he slid away the opening in the wall.

Philippe was sprawled on the settee at the back of the dressing room, shirt unbuttoned and hair unkempt while Babette fussed with her hair at dressing table mirror. Erik let out a quiet sigh of relief that it appeared their _festivities_ had already concluded.

"Babette," Philippe answered in a voice laced with impatience. "What do you want me to do about it? I'm not the ballet mistress."

"You can talk to your father!" she snapped back, reaching for a tube of lip color.

"Babette, I am publicly involved with Giselle," Philippe reminded her with a roll of his eyes. "Why would I be speaking on _your_ behalf and not hers?"

"Because Giselle is a little girl!" Babette snapped in irritation with a cluck of her tongue. "But even _she_ would be preferable to Antoinette Laramie—the slut of the opera house, who only has _this_ position because she agrees to Giles Giry's _favorite_ positions!"

Erik took a deep breath to keep himself from tearing right through the mirror and strangling Babette for her accusations. As it was, his blood boiled as he continued to listen to the vulgar girl's insinuations.

"I don't know what he sees in her," she wondered, straightening up and adjusting the bodice of her tutu. "Scrawny looking thing! And far too tall to be a proper ballerina! But then, I guess, gentlemen cannot truly appreciate the curves of a _real_ woman." Looking over her shoulder at her paramour, she added, "That must be why you are still with Giselle…you lack true appreciation."

"Babette, I appreciate your womanly assets _very_ much," he answered hungrily, gesturing for her to come over and join him on the settee. "You know I am only with Giselle, because she has the virginal appearance that mother desires. It's the only reason she permits me to spend so much time here at the opera house."

"Ah, yes," Babette cooed, as she slid herself over to Philippe and straddled his lap, running a finger slowly down his chest. "But you stripped her of her virtue, didn't you? Right after you told her you loved her. Isn't that right?"

"Well," Philippe answered, putting his hands on Babette's waist and pulling her more tightly against him, arching his hips upward to make his interest in _her_ attributes very clear. "I had to carry on the ruse. Keep _up_ appearances, if you will. Sometimes these things happen." He tilted his head upward, reaching forward to capture Babette's lips with a kiss.

Babette leaned lower, until her mouth was a breath away from his. "I see. . . Well, perhaps," she whispered seductively, running her finger across his lips. " _We_ will _not_ happen until you fix this thing with that whore Laramie."

Erik's fingers squeezed into fists at Babette's cruel words, his fingernails cutting into his flesh. Babette roughly lifted herself from Philippe's lap, leaving the boy in a very bad way, as she sashayed to the door. "Talk to your father, or we're through!"

"But Babette!" Philippe actually whined as the promise of a repeat performance of their scandalous encounter dissolved in front of his very eyes.

"Oh, don't worry, Philippe," Babette responded. "I'm sure your little Giselle will keep your bed warm while you're awaiting the return of your real woman!" And with that, Babette waltzed out the door, slamming it behind her.

Erik too, slid the opening behind the dressing mirror shut. He was shaking with his anger for the disgusting ballerina who had just left the room. "So you think you are a real woman, Babette Sorelli?" he wondered aloud, through clenched teeth. "Perhaps the opera house should learn who the _real_ slut of the opera is!"

And turning violently, Erik made his way back to Box 5, a plan of revenge already formulating in his mind.

 **AN: Uh oh! Babette has truly incurred the ghost's wrath! Watch out! But what do you think of what the foreman had to say. Do you think the lure of Charles Garnier will be enough to make Erik leave Paris? If just for a short time? Please review and let me know! :)**


	30. Chapter 30

CH 30

"Erik," Annie called out as she lay in bed, waiting for him to join her. He was sitting at the little writing desk in their room, scribbling something furiously on a piece of paper. She was exhausted from a long day of rehearsals at the opera house, and wanted nothing more than to just close her eyes and let the sleep take her, but she found that without Erik beside her, it was impossible.

She had been so excited, earlier, to share with him the news that she had been given the lead role in the ballet. But on their walk home from the opera house, he had seemed so agitated, and all through dinner, the edginess never left him. She suggested a quiet evening of reading, curled up together on the settee, thinking, perhaps, it would soothe his troubled mind enough that he could talk about what was bothering him. But still, he brooded, as he sat there with one hand holding his book and the other arm draped around her shoulders, with his jaw clenched and the fingers resting on her arm curled into a fist. Though they passed at least an hour this way, Erik never turned a page, and she certainly hadn't wanted to tell him her news while he was obviously so distracted.

When Annie suggested they go to bed, she thought that when they were snuggled together under the blankets, Erik would at last relax, and she could tell him of her good fortune at the opera house. But Erik allowed her to use the water closet first, choosing to sit at the desk and begin to write as he waited for her, and now, she had been lying in bed for quite some time, and he showed no sign of having noticed.

"Are you ever coming to bed?" Annie inquired, with a yawn.

Erik's head snapped up and he glanced over to the bed, his eyes softening a bit when he saw Annie there, head propped up on her hand, barely able to keep her eyes open. "My darling, I had no idea you were out of the water closet."

"I know," she murmured. "You've been so busy writing. What are you working on, anyway?" she asked, yawning once more. "A new composition?"

"Not exactly, Annie," he hedged his answer, tucking the papers into the drawer and replacing the pen into its well. "Just…notes." He rose from the desk and walked over to join her.

"Well those _notes_ ," she informed him in a joking manner, "have kept me from telling you something very important."

"And what is that?" Erik asked her with a smile, as he sat on the edge of the bed, brushing a few strands of hair back from her forehead.

"I have been named the lead dancer in our production, Erik!" Annie's tired eyes shone with her excitement. "It's just as you'd imagined."

"Of course it is, Annie!" Erik smiled leaning over and taking her into his arms for a congratulatory hug. When she squealed at the force of his embrace, he loosened his hold a bit, pulling back so that he could look into her eyes. "You are an exquisite dancer! They would be hard pressed to find your equal."

"Thank you, Erik," she said, quite seriously. "Thank you for pushing me to do this. I would never have auditioned for the ballet at the Paris Opera House, without your insistence. I had not realized how much this job would mean to me until it was thrust upon me. So thank you—for always being my angel."

Feeling a bit choked up at her words, Erik reaching out to tenderly caress her cheek. "You are my _life_ , Annie. Without you, I am nothing."

"That is not true," Annie scolded. "You are Erik. And you are _everything_."

Erik smiled and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. "I love you, my angel."

"And I love you," Annie whispered, dreamily. "Always. Now go get changed, silly," she teased. "It's bedtime."

"I will in a bit," he answered, kicking off his shoes and crawling under the covers beside her. "But you look like you are just about to pass out, and I know the newest little prima ballerina needs her rest for the big rehearsal tomorrow. Just let me hold you while fall asleep, then I shall take care of my own needs."

She tilted her head up and met his lips in a kiss both soft and warm, his hand still on her cheek, her fingers delicately twisting in his hair. When they separated with a sigh, Annie rolled over on her side, resting her back against Erik's chest. He draped an arm around her waist and hugged her tightly to him, curving his body protectively around hers. Placing his lips right near her ear, he hummed a soft lullaby as he felt her drift off into sleep.

She was so precious, Erik thought, as she slept there in his arms—so vulnerable and trusting—her entire life in his hands. He could lie here forever like this, he realized in that moment, needing nothing else in the whole world except to hold Annie close, breathing in the scent of her hair, feeling her warmth melting the soul he once thought made of ice. He had been told so many times in his youth that he was less than nothing—an abomination, a monster, the devil's own. As a child he had yearned for love—for acceptance—but through his mother's cruelty and the gypsies' abuse he had learned to hate—building up walls and barricades to shield his battered heart, knowing that it was safer to hide than to ever let anyone near his fragile emotions ever again. But Annie changed everything.

He smiled as he recalled that the very first word he ever uttered to her. _"Go!"_ He had commanded she leave him, and the implication was that she should never come back. Perhaps it was because even then, he could feel the heat in her beautiful eyes burning through those defenses, and warming him right at his core. He had been so afraid of that contact—that simple gaze shared through the bars of a cage. It was so much more dangerous than the master's whip—far more cacophonous than the screams of fear and disgust all around him. For from that first moment, on some level, he knew that somehow, she could _see_ him—the real him. That gave her a power over him that the gypsies never had—that his mother never wielded. And if she chose to use that power to hurt him, he knew he would most certainly bleed.

But Annie _had_ come back and time and again, through the years that had followed, she'd proven that her power over him was restorative, and that healing resided in her touch, and in her smile. And now, as he lay here, with his precious angel in his arms, he knew—without the shadow of a doubt—the he had everything he would ever need—everything he could ever desire—right here in the bed beside him.

But Annie deserved more.

That was why, with a gentle kiss to the back of her head, Erik rose from the bed, tucking the covers in around her to keep her warm until he could once again join her in slumber. He walked back over to the writing desk, pulling the chair out soundlessly and retrieved his papers from the drawer. Annie had given him everything—acceptance, love, and more happiness then he ever dreamed he would feel. He would not stand for anyone— _anyone_ —causing her any type of grief, or spreading malicious lies about her. That was why he had a few more notes to write before he could sleep.

He smoothed out the black-bordered stationery, and lifted his pen out of the well. Then touching nib to paper, in his most flowery handwriting, he scrawled,

 _Fondest_ _Greetings Good Monsieur…_

* * *

"Are you _mad_ , Philippe?" Babette hissed, as she met him on the stage at the time he had appointed in his letter. The auditorium was dark since everyone busy with their warm ups in the rehearsal rooms. It had been difficult to sneak away, but Philippe's letter stated that he had some very important news to discuss with her, so there was no way she could refuse to meet him. Making sure Madame Delacroix didn't see her leave, she hurried to the stage to rendezvous with her sometimes lover. "We are busy getting ready for the dress rehearsal your father demanded. I do not have time for this!"

"Oh Babette," Philippe chuckled deep in his throat, as he reached out and took her hands with his, pulling her roughly closer to him. "Don't play so coy! I know you want this," he murmured.

She had clearly stated in her letter this morning that she absolutely needed to see him on the stage before the rehearsals started, so that they could _initiate_ the place properly. Of course, he knew what that meant—just as he knew she wouldn't be able to stay away from him for long. He had considered not coming—after the awful state she had left him in the day before. But he also recalled how his evening tryst with Giselle had done nothing to cool his ardor from the aborted encounter with Babette in the dressing room. Giselle's sweetness and willingness to please were no match for Babette's voluptuous curves and considerable experience. Though he knew Babette deserved to be punished for her cheekiness, he also knew he could not deny himself the delights that only she seemed to know how to bestow. There were other, more titillating ways in which he could punish her—and as he had made his way to the auditorium to help her christen the stage, his excitement at the possibilities already had him in a state of eager readiness to begin.

"Philippe," Babette said, as he nibbled at her neck, reaching around to her back to untie the familiar laces on her bodice. Then, using her hands to push him slightly away from her, she asked, "Did you talk to your father like you were supposed to? You know I told you I would not do this until Antoinette Laramie was dismissed from her post."

"No worries, Babette," Philippe responded, tiring of her conditions and willing to say anything to win the prize to which he felt entitled. "Before the day is done, _you_ will be in the spotlight! At the very _top_ of your game."

"Oh," Babette squealed in excitement, leaning her head back in glee, "I like the sounds of that."

"I'm going to like the feel of it too," Philippe groaned huskily, unfastening his pants, as he lowered himself to the floor, and pulling her down on top of him.

"Philippe?" Babette asked, eyes narrowed. "Here?"

" _Right_ here, Babette," Philippe nodded, enjoying her ruse of not knowing exactly what was happening. "We are going to break this stage in the right way."

"Mmmmmm," she purred, straddling Philippe's hips as she felt him peel her dress down to her waist. Closing her eyes, she imagined it was the handsome Giles Giry beneath her, reaching up to cup her breasts, and groaning in appreciation. And she couldn't think of a better way to loosen up her muscles before dancing for the count.

* * *

Annie was on edge. It had been a challenging day—the only bright spot the way Erik had woken her in the morning with whisper soft kisses to her temple, her cheeks, her eyelids—his lips finally finding their way to hers with a tenderness that had come close to bringing her to tears. She had wrapped her arms around his neck, lacing her fingers in his hair, not wanting the magic moment to end when Erik reluctantly pulled away, reminding her that she had a big day at the opera house. She wouldn't want to be late.

And of course, he had been right. It had already been a tense morning of warm-ups—with Madame Delacroix in a terrible disposition. At least Babette seemed to have disappeared, Annie thought, wondering for a moment if she were sick. _Sickening_ was more like it, Annie decided, but she forced thoughts of the vile dancer out of her mind as she attempted to focus on the last minute adjustments Madame Delacroix was making to the routine, willing herself not to cringe every time she heard the baton crack against the wooden floor.

When the rehearsal room doors opened in a flurry of excitement, however, all of Annie's efforts to remain calm dissipated completely. Monsieur Moncharmin came running in, breathless, announcing, "He's here! He's here!"

"For heaven's sake, Claude!" Madame Delacroix bellowed, as she glared at him, furious that he had interrupted her rehearsal time. " _Who's_ here? And why are you running around like a goose with his head cut off?"

"Madame Delacroix," Moncharmin hissed, straightening himself to his full height and trying to regain his composure. "The Count de Chagny is here. Two hours early, to be exact. And he is expecting the rehearsal to start in ten minutes' time."

Madame rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Oh, damn it all to hell!" she groaned. "I am sick to death of these _noblemen_ who think they can just run around and change everyone's schedule at the drop of a hat!"

"Well, they _can_ , when they are the chief patron!" he spat. "Especially when he apparently received a written notice from someone _here_ , saying that the rehearsal time had been moved up. Now I must go speak to the singers. Have your ballerinas in the auditorium in 5 minutes!" And with that, he exited in a huff.

"Alright, ladies, you heard the man! We have a count to impress!" she waved her hand in the air, springing her girls into action.

The room exploded in a frenzy of activity as Madame Delacroix barked last minute orders while the ballerinas flitted about in a flurry of nervous energy. "Where the hell is Babette?" Delacroix shouted at one point, when she realized the ballerina was nowhere to be found.

"No one's seen her, Madame," came one girl's answer.

"We thought maybe she fell ill," called another ballerina from across the room.

"We don't have time for this!" Madame grumbled under her breath. "We'll be better off without her shenanigans anyway!"

Annie kept step with the rest of the ballerinas as they hurried down the hall to the stage.

"I'm so nervous," she heard one of them say.

"I'm excited," another one gushed.

"If the count is here," Giselle said, great joy on her face, "That means my Philippe will be here as well. I cannot wait for him to see me on stage. I told him last night I would be dancing only for him."

"How romantic," sighed the young ballerina with the British lilt to her voice.

Suddenly Annie wished that Erik were there. All of her nerves—all of her worries and trepidations about dancing in front of the Count—would fade into nothingness if she could only hear his voice whisper in her ear. "Brava," he would murmur from some hidden place in the audience, and she would know that he was with her. It would be enough to ease her soul as she danced for the noble patron and his sons. Erik was her courage—Erik was her strength. And she knew, that as long as he was by her side, everything would be all right.

"Ah, Count, Countess," she heard Madame Delacroix say politely from the front of the group. Annie looked up from her musing to see the ballet mistress curtsey before the Count and Countess De Chagny, a tow headed boy of about 8 years standing between them, looking incredibly bored. They were making their way to the auditorium accompanied by Claude Moncharmin and his partner in management, Jacques Robert.' "A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Ah…Monsieur," Monsieur Moncharmin began, by way of introduction. "This is Madame Delacroix—our esteemed ballet mistress. She is escorting the Corps du Ballet into the auditorium."

"Yes," said the count in a rather curt voice. "I can see that, Monsieur Moncharmin. Shall we hurry this along, then?" he added. "I do not know how long my son's patience will hold up."

"Where's Philippe?" Giselle wondered aloud, craning her neck to see if she could catch a glimpse of him.

"Oh, well then," Moncharmin cleared his throat nervously, "we shall get started post-haste. Won't we, Madame?" he flashed Madame Delacroix a tight smile.

"We shall," Madame replied, as she turned toward the girls with a roll of her eyes. "Ladies, backstage!" she commanded, pointing to the performers' entrance where the dancers would cue up in formation, and wait for the orchestra to strike the first chords.

Opening the door to the auditorium, Monsieur extended his hand in invitation for the Count to enter. "After you, Monsieur."

With the count in the lead, they entered the auditorium. A low moan and the sound of heavy breathing drew everyone's attention to the stage, where Babette, tutu gathered around her waist, knelt astride Philippe de Chagny, who's pants were bunched up around his ankles.

"Philippe! What is the meaning of this?" the count shouted furiously as his wife struggled to cover her younger son's eyes. Monsieur Moncharmin took one scandalized look at the stage, and positioned himself between it and the Count, trying to mollify the count's anger.

Babette and Philippe froze in the middle of their licentious activity, their eyes wide with shock to see Philippe's family, as well as the managers staring back at them from the audience. Babette quickly turned her back, pulling her bodice up over her breasts, in an effort to regain some modesty, only to be further mortified when the entire corps du ballet ran onto the stage, drawn by the count's horrified cry.

"Father," Philippe awkwardly reached down to yank up his trousers with one hand, while trying to cover himself with the other. "I can explain…"

"Philippe…" Giselle sobbed questioningly, from behind him, tears streaming down her face. Philippe turned from the scandalized face of his father to the devastated face of his girlfriend, and he suddenly found himself at a loss for words.

Huddled into herself on the ground, Babette looked around in shock, searching for just one person— _just one_ —who would offer her some help—some _sympathy_. Surely, there must be someone who could see her side of the story. But all around her she saw nothing but scowls of hatred and disdain and even Philippe would no longer meet her gaze.

Suddenly, a resounding, thunderous applause echoed all around. "Bravo, Brava!" came the booming cry, bouncing off the walls, giving the impression of being everywhere and nowhere all at once. "What a spectacular performance! Especially by our _extremely_ enthusiastic leading lady! I don't think there can be a doubt in anyone's mind who the _true_ slut of the opera house is now!"

The voice dissolved into a cacophonous laughter, and the ballerinas began to shriek, "It's the ghost!" and cling to one another in fear.

But not Annie. No, she had not joined the commotion in the room, but rather she stood there, at the edge of the stage, head lifted in the direction of Box 5, with a look of disbelief mixed with irritation on her face.

Seeing this, Babette's eyes narrowed, and in her mind things were suddenly became very clear. It might have been the ghost who was jeering and publicly reveling in her shame, but she knew exactly who was pulling his strings!

So fixated was Annie on the spectral sounds reverberating all around her, that she did not notice as the disgraced ballerina stomped over to her, glaring with hate in her eyes, her bodice held up loosely, her tutu a wrinkled mess.

"Mademoiselle Sorelli," Monsieur Robert said, arriving on the stage at just the same time, averting his eyes from Babette's disheveled form. "It would be best for you to leave. Gather your things from the dormitories, and just…go. You are no longer employed by the Palais Garnier."

Babette did not move, but simply glared directly into Annie's eyes. "Are you happy now?"

Annie stared at her incredulously. "What are you talking about?

"We didn't have a ghost until _you_ came!" Babette shrieked. "Antoinette Laramie arrives, and the ghost arrives with her. Wasn't it enough that you are sleeping with Monsieur Giry? Did you need another henchman to do your bidding while your dear Giles is away?"

"For the last time," Annie shouted. "I am not sleeping with Giles Giry!"

The loud crack of Babette's hand connecting with Annie's cheek echoed throughout the auditorium—all eyes and all ears now trained on the two pugnacious ballerinas. "Liar!" Babette hissed, as Annie fell to the ground, knocked off balance by the force of Babette's blow.

"Go, Babette Sorelli," the voice of the ghost swelled once again, terrifying now as it grew in in intensity. "Go now! GOOOOOOOOOOO NOOOOOOOOOOOW!"

With a chorus of shrieks and screams, the corps du ballet of the Palais Garnier flew from the auditorium, scrambling to get away as fast as they could. The Count and Countess, and their now whimpering young son, moved next, followed by the mortified managers, who had no idea what exactly was happening in their opera house.

Soon the performance space was empty, of everyone except for Annie, who still lay, huddled where she had fallen on the stage floor. And as the whispered, "I'm sorry," rustled at her ear, she closed her eyes and shook her head, with the rueful thought, that Erik had been there after all.

 **AN: OH, Erik. You are naughty. So VERY naughty. And poor Annie got humiliated almost as badly as Babette. But Babette TRULY got what she deserved!**


	31. Chapter 31

**AN: Forgive me for not having updated in a while. I've been sick with the flu and too out of it to do much of anything other than sleep. But I'm a little more with it today, so I thought I'd post.**

CH 31

"Annie!" Erik cried as he burst through the cottage door, slamming it behind him. A quick scan of the living area revealed Annie curled up on the settee, a book in her hand, a cup of tea on the side table beside her. "Oh Annie," Erik sighed in relief, rushing over to kneel in front of her. "I've been looking everywhere for you. I was so worried. Thank God you're alright!"

"Of course I'm alright, Erik," Annie replied coldly, turning a page in her book and not looking at him. "Did you think me incapable of walking home?"

"No Annie," Erik answered, with narrowed eyes. "But why did you leave without me? You know I always meet you."

"Except for when you get preoccupied," she answered, still not looking up from her book. "Then you're hours late, and I am left waiting under a street lamp."

"Annie, that was one time."

"Right!" she nodded. "When your sense of adventure got the best of you. And I'd say you were feeling _rather_ adventurous today! So I thought there was no point trying to meet up with you."

Taking a deep breath, Erik entreated her, "Annie, please look at me."

Jaw clenched, Annie looked up from her book and gazed directly into Erik's eyes. "I'm looking."

Annie's eyes were hard and dark with anger and disappointment, and Erik found that under the weight of that impenetrable gaze, _he_ had to look away. Swallowing hard and glancing down at the floor, he said quietly, "Annie, I'm sorry."

"I know," she responded plainly. "You whispered that in my ear from your perch in Box 5. Or perhaps that was the ghost. I can hardly tell the difference anymore."

"Annie…" Erik sighed.

"That was quite a scene you orchestrated there, Erik!" she interrupted, tossing her book down on the couch and standing up from the settee. "Especially for someone who promised me that he would not cause any more trouble at the Opera House!"

"Annie, I'm sorry…" Erik began again, still kneeling with his head hung low.

"You keep saying that!" Annie snapped, bending down a bit over him. "But do you even know what you are sorry for? You brought scandal upon the opera house. Messieurs Moncharmin and Robert' wanted so badly to make a good impression on the Count, and they were humiliated!"

"The count's own son played a big part in that humiliation," Erik pointed out, "so the noble family has no business being upset with the managers."

"When has that ever stopped a nobleman? And you're right!" Annie added. "Philippe was a huge part of the disgrace that happened today at the opera house. Do you know what that did to Giselle—the young, sweet ballerina with whom he was involved? She thought he was in love with her. But instead she got to see him rutting on the opera stage with another girl."

"Better that she know the truth!" Erik countered.

"Really?" Annie questioned in surprise. "Is it better that her workplace—where she has to spend hours every day—will now be forever tainted by the image of the man she loved cavorting with another woman? I will be certain to let her know, because when I left the opera house this evening, she was still crying—heartbroken over the man who was her first true love. She was innocent in this, Erik! And your little stunt devastated her!"

Erik raked his fingers through his hair in frustration. "I'm sorry! I _told_ you I was sorry."

"Yes!" Annie hissed. "And you also promised not to interfere!"

"But that woman!" Erik spat. "That disgusting, vile, vulgar woman. She was so vicious toward you, Annie. Always claiming that you were sleeping with Giles Giry, and calling you a whore and a slut. I could no longer abide that!"

"So is that why you spent so much time last night _brooding_ and writing _notes_ instead of spending time with me?" Annie questioned. "Were you so angry about words that you knew were lies and complete fabrications that you took time away from _us_ to plot revenge against a foolish girl, who in the end, amounted to nothing? I wanted so much to celebrate with you last night, Erik. I wanted to share the news of my triumph with you, and instead you ignored me all night while you schemed in secret? Was this worth it?"

"That hideous woman will be out of your life now, Annie," Erik shouted, rising to his full height. "You will have your proper place leading the dancers, without having to worry about her snide comments and orchestrations going on behind your back! So yes, I say it _was_ worth it!"

"Well, you are wrong!" Annie yelled back. "I was awarded the role of lead dancer even with Babette and her scheming ways. I got the role because of my talent, and my focus. But now, _my_ name is linked with the scandal because of Babette's public aspersions against me. She used to be the only one who thought I was sleeping with Giles Giry. Now, everyone does! And the managers do not want the performance to be tainted. So I will be dancing in the chorus and the lead will be danced by someone else."

Erik looked at Annie absolutely crestfallen. "No!" he whispered in disbelief. "That was not supposed to happen."

"Well, that _is_ what happened!" Annie fought against the tears of frustration filling her eyes.

"I wanted that woman out of your life." Erik said softly, not looking at her. "I was only trying to fix things for you, Annie."

"You have _got_ to stop trying to fix things for me!" she spat, the tears finally starting to roll down her cheek. "I can take care of myself—and I can even handle bullies like Babette! I've had a lot of experience in my life doing just that! I do _not_ need you to take care of me, Erik! I am not so _very_ little!"

Erik just stared straight ahead for a moment, feeling as if the wind had been knocked out of him. This could not be happening. Why were they forcing Annie to pay for the sins that wicked girl had committed? Couldn't they see that Annie was innocent in all this?

He had only wanted Babette Sorelli to pay for her reprehensible actions—and to prevent her from causing Annie any more trouble. Yet, _his_ actions wound up grieving Annie most sorely. He had thought Babette was the biggest threat at the opera house—but Annie was right. She had been doing a fine job handling her. It was only when Erik interfered that things had gone awry. Babette had not been Annie's biggest stumbling block. That role had gone to him.

 _He_ had cost her the lead role in the opera. _He_ had been the reason her reputation had been sullied. From the very start, _he_ was why she'd never fit in at the opera house with the other girls. If she had just gone to live in the dormitories from the start, her name would never even have been connected with Giles Giry's in any way. She would not have been met with suspicion and disdain. No, _he_ brought that down upon her. He had wanted nothing more than to lift her up—to see her shining as a star in the heavens. And when she had her chance—when she had _earned_ it for _herself_ , he managed to drag her back down with him into the depths of derision and scorn that had had a hold on him since the moment he took his first breath.

Suddenly, Erik couldn't breathe. Without a word, he moved to the door, and placed his hand on the knob.

Annie quickly hurried after him. "Erik," she asked, putting her hands on his shoulders to stop him. "Where are you going?"

Erik looked into her eyes now as tears pooled in his own. He saw concern there, where a moment ago there had been anger and frustration—rightfully directed toward him. His fiery Annie! She had quite the temper, but now the storm had passed and she was ready to move on to forgiveness.

But Erik knew he did not deserve forgiveness.

"I need to get some air, Annie," he told her, resisting her efforts to urge him away from the door. "I need to think." And then looking sorrowfully into her loving eyes, it finally hit him. And in a voice hitched with tears, he told her, "Annie, I need to go." And gently pulling her hands away from his shoulders, he walked out the door.

* * *

Erik wandered around aimlessly for a while, not wanting to admit to himself that he had a very specific destination in mind. Inside, it was as if he was hollow. He had been so sure his plan would work—and it _had_ gotten Babette Sorelli fired. But it had also backfired harshly on his Annie, with consequences that he would never, in a million years, have intended. He had given the plan so much thought—so much attention. But it never occurred to him that it would end up hurting the woman he loved more than life itself. He did it _for_ Annie, but in the end, it had worked against her.

Erik was quickly realizing that he could not continue living in Paris in his current state of mind. In the woods, things had been simple. He and Annie had only to rely on one another to survive—and they _had_ done so—perfectly. They had been so in tune with each other—so happy, and so in love.

But Paris was not simple. In Paris, there were other people, and bills to pay, and expectations to meet and fighting. _So much fighting_.

The tension that had hovered around them since they had entered this city was worse than any storm they weathered before. In the past they could always point to the gypsies or Annie's stepfather as the source of their grief. But this time—Erik knew—this time _he_ was the source. Because he couldn't find a job. Because he couldn't relate well with other people. Because he couldn't simply let go of the notion that he had to take care of Annie—even when he _knew_ she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself.

But now Erik knew what he had to do. It hit him when Annie was asking him where he was going. _He needed to go_. He needed to go so that Annie could build her career at the opera house, without always putting _his_ needs first. He knew that as long as he was living with her in Paris, _he_ would be her priority, and she would never make the difficult decisions that she should make for her own good—like moving into the dormitories and bonding with the other girls.

He needed to go so that he could become the man _he_ wanted to be—one who could stand on his own and provide for his family. As long as he stayed here in Paris, he would never find a job, and therefore never be able to be the husband to Annie that he wanted to be. He would never be able to give her a home of her own for which they didn't have to pay someone else a monthly rent. He would never be able to take her to the market and have her pick out a pair of shoes in which she could dance without her feet becoming sore and tired. Paris would never give him what _he_ needed, so he would have to leave Paris to find it. Otherwise, he would spend his entire life being an albatross around Annie's neck.

So he stood at the base of the hill of the de Chagny build site, looking up to see that quite a bit of progress had been made on the Count's new mansion. He was somewhat surprised to see a soft glow spilling out the foreman's tent, having assumed that the man would have gone home hours ago. Steeling his nerves, he took his first step up the hill, deciding he could not waste any more time before informing the foreman that he had made the most difficult decision of his life.

* * *

Annie felt she must have paced the cottage floor a thousand times before she finally heard the knob turning and the quiet opening of the door.

"Erik!" she cried, as she ran to where he was hanging his cloak on the hook, and threw her arms around his neck, burying her head in his chest. She felt his arms close around her back, and he just held her tightly for a few moments—neither of them saying a word.

"Oh Erik," Annie said, quietly, as soon as she could speak again. "I'm so glad you're home."

"Yes," he murmured, breathing in the scent of her hair. "I'm here, my love."

Annie pulled back enough to look up at him, and he could see that her eyes were lined with tears. "Erik, I know we fought, and I know you needed to think, but I felt so sick while you were gone. Promise me, we will never do this again," she implored him. "We can work through any problem, Erik. As long as we are together."

Erik stayed silent a moment longer, just gazing at her, not sure how he was going to tell her about the decision he had made. But he knew it had to be done. So, disentangling himself from her embrace, he quietly took her hand in his, bringing it to his lips and kissing it tenderly. Using his other hand to close the door, which had still been hanging open, he guided her to the settee.

"Annie," he said softly, looking into her eyes. "I have to talk to you."

"If it is about the incident at the opera house, forget about it," she said quickly. "You have already apologized, and you are right. You only brought to light the reprehensible activity in which Philippe and Babette were already engaging. I am sorry for Giselle, but he was never going to marry her anyway. Noblemen do not marry dancers. And _I_ was not fired from the opera house—so there will be other lead roles. After I prove that I am not involved with Giles Giry—which should be easy to do now that Babette is gone. It will all work out, Erik. I am sorry that I was so angry with you."

Erik closed his eyes and shook his head, a bittersweet smile spreading on his face. "Do not apologize, Annie. You had every right to be angry with me. And that is not what I wanted to talk about."

The look of sadness and dread on Erik's face made Annie's stomach twist into knots. "Erik, you're scaring me," she told him quite truthfully.

"Don't be afraid, darling," he squeezed her hand comfortingly, trying to find the courage within his own heart to explain. "Everything will be fine. But I must go away…for a while."

Annie's eyes widened in horror and she shook her head breathing, "No."

"Annie, I have been offered a job," he told her, continuing to squeeze her hand as he looked into her eyes. "But it's not in Paris. It's in Monaco."

Annie took a deep breath, looking around the cottage that she had just begun to think of as home. "Alright, then. When do we leave?" she asked stoically.

Erik shook his head sadly, having known that this was going to be her first response. "Annie, _we_ don't leave. _I_ do."

Annie moved slightly backward, stricken to the core by his words. "Erik that is ridiculous. We go together. You cannot leave without me."

"Annie," Erik said gently. "You have a life here in Paris. You've got a glowing career ahead of you."

"That doesn't mean anything," she interjected quickly.

"Yes, Annie," Erik assured her. "It does. In Paris you are going to become what you were always meant to be—a prima ballerina, who will light up the stage with her grace and beauty."

"But I don't care about being a prima ballerina, Erik!" Annie argued. "I only want to be your wife!"

"You _will_ be my wife, Annie," he vowed, squeezing her hands so tightly that his knuckles whitened. "Never _ever_ doubt that. But I can never become a man here in Paris, Annie. There is no opportunity for me. People look at me and they see only the mask. No one— _no one_ —sees beyond it."

"I always have," Annie sobbed.

"Yes, my angel," he nodded, reaching forward and wiping away a tear that had rolled down her cheek. "You _always_ have. But to others here, I am simply a freak—an abomination. No one here has been willing to give me a chance to prove myself—and the one man who did almost had his entire crew walk out on him."

"Well, it is their loss if they don't see your genius." Annie countered.

"But don't you see, Annie? It is _my_ loss too. I spent my younger years derided on a daily basis—spit at, laughed at, and kept in a cage. You changed all that, but we hid, Annie. We hid from society and lived by our own rules."

"And we were happy!" Annie interjected, feeling as if all the happiness she ever had in her life was threatening to leave her in this moment.

"We lived in bliss, my love," Erik conceded. "But in Paris there are new rules to follow, Annie. I will never be able to earn a living here, unless I gain some experience that can supersede the hideousness of my face. And you will never fully bond with the other ballerinas unless you move into the dormitories."

"You do not know that, Erik!" Annie spat. "It might be easier for me, with Babette gone. And even if I never do truly bond with them, I don't _need_ them."

"But I do need to be able to earn a living, Annie."

"God, Erik!" Annie cried. "When are you going to understand that I do not need you to give me a fancy house to be happy?"

"But I _do_ need to be a man who can stand on my own two feet, Annie," he begged her to understand. " _I_ need that. For _me_! For once."

Annie shut her eyes against the tears that kept rolling down her cheeks anyway. "How did you come to know about this job? In Monaco?"

"The foreman, Annie," Erik told her, taking her hands in his again and rubbing soothing circles on her palm with his thumb. "—the one who gave me a chance. He is a friend of Charles Garnier's."

" _The_ Charles Garnier?" Annie asked, her surprise momentarily interrupting her tears.

"Yes, Annie," Erik smiled despite the sadness of the situation. "He told me he would write to Garnier to recommend me for the job. And Charles Garnier is held in such high esteem, that he would not face the same type of rebellion from his workers. No one would dare walk off _his_ site if they ever cared to work again."

"You would have the chance to work side by side with Charles Garnier?" Annie repeated with a sniff. "The man you so admire for the design of the opera house?"

"Yes, Annie," Erik answered, and there was just the smallest glint of excitement in his eyes.

"It would be your ballet," Annie said quietly, tears pooling again in her eyes at the bittersweet nature of the situation. " _Your_ dream come true."

"It would be wonderful to work with Garnier, Annie," Erik admitted, cupping her face with his palm. "But my dreams all came true the day you first said you loved me."

"Oh Erik," Annie sobbed collapsing forward and once again burying her head in his chest. "How am I ever going to be able to live without you?"

Erik felt as if a knife were piercing his heart, because truly, he still wondered the same thing about himself. How was he going to survive without Annie by his side? But he wrapped his arms around his trembling love and stroked her hair promising her, "You will be fine, Annie. You are strong."

"No, Erik," she keened. " _You_ are my strength."

"No Annie," Erik insisted, tipping her chin up so that he could look into her eyes. "Your strength is inside of you. It is your strength that allowed you to look upon a monster and see a scared and vulnerable little boy. It is that same strength that helped that boy escape from the hellhole he had been living in—carrying him on your shoulders when he was too weak to stand. And it is that strength that allowed you to love him, and help him to grow strong too. You have been saving my life since the moment I met you, Annie. Never doubt how strong you are."

"But you have saved me too, Erik," she sobbed. "And I don't know how to live without you anymore."

"It will not be forever, Annie," Erik promised. "The job will last a few months at most. And then I will return, with money and experience. And with Garnier's name to back me, no one will be able to turn me away. We will finally be married, Annie—and we will never be parted again."

"I don't want to be parted with you the first time, Erik," Annie said again, but her tone revealed that she knew her argument had already been lost. "Simply say the word, and I will go with you. We could be married now, and I could follow you and we could start our lives over in Monaco."

"No, Annie," Erik said with a firm gentleness. "You belong here. Dancing on the stage—just like your mother before you."

"I belong with you," she said, placing a hand on his heart. "Always."

"And you will be with me always," he assured her, placing his own hand over hers, "here, in my heart. But I must go to Monaco now, for just a little while, so that we can spend the rest of our lives together."

"When would you go?" she asked, sadly, finally realizing the inevitability of the situation.

"Not for a while," Erik promised her. "Definitely after opening night. I want to see my darling angel soar."

Annie nodded, reluctantly, as she moved once again into his arms. And as Erik held her against him, for dear life, he wondered how on earth he was ever going to let her go.

 **AN: Oh, Erik, Erik Erik! You make such good points, but is this really and truly the best way? What do you think?**


	32. Chapter 32

CH 32

The week before the opera's debut was filled with a rehearsal frenzy. Annie wished she could say that with Babette gone things were a little less tense at the opera house, but in truth, the anxiety level rose. The managers and Madame Delacroix scrambled frantically to perfect every last detail of the performance and the subsequent gala ball. They were bound and determined that the humiliating incident with Babette and Philippe would not further mar the glory of opening night, so they were doubly hard on the performers. One misplaced step—one wrongly uttered note—would let loose a cavalcade of correction that was both punishing and exhausting.

As much as Annie wanted to enjoy what she now knew was her limited time with Erik, most nights she could barely manage to force down a small evening meal before she was claimed by a bone crushing fatigue. When Erik saw her eyelids drooping, he would lift her gently into his arms, and carry her up the stairs to their bedroom, lying down beside her and cradling her in his arms, as he sang whisper soft lullabies until she was asleep.

Long were the hours Erik would lay there and watch her sleep, memorizing every obsidian strand of hair, and each soft sigh that would escape from her lips as she lay dreaming. Every hour—every second, he knew—drew him closer to the time when he would depart, leaving his heart and his soul behind with Annie. It would crush him to leave her, but he knew he had no choice. He had to go for a little while now, so that he could secure their future. And with Annie by his side—as his wife—what a future that would be!

The morning of the Palais Garnier's debut performance, Erik let Annie sleep in. Rehearsal call was somewhat later that day, since management wanted the performers to be fresh, and Annie awoke to the sun's bright and cheerful greeting, and delicious aromas, sweet and tempting, wafting through the air. With a stretch and a yawn, she rose from the bed, and padding down the stairs, found Erik in the process of dipping slices of bread in egg then placing them into a frying pan.

"My goodness, Erik," Annie declared as she entered the kitchen and came up behind him, to wrap her arms around his waist. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"

"Well," Erik answered, craning his head over his shoulder to place a quick kiss on Annie's forehead, careful not to let the bread burn. "It appears that Monsieur Giry's aunt had quite the collection of cook books—and I have to do something all day, now that I am no longer wandering around behind the walls of the opera house."

It was true—mostly. After the complete fiasco with Philippe and Babette, Erik kept good on his promise to Annie that he would no longer interfere with the affairs of the opera house. After dropping Annie off at the Palais Garnier in the mornings, he would return to the cottage and occupy himself until it was time to meet Annie in the evening. Often, he would play his old trusty violin, composing soaring new melodies to while away the time. Other times he would spend reading, thumbing through the novels on the shelves, or perusing the special books he had bought himself at the market that day that seemed so long ago. But he would always make sure to get to the Garnier a little early, and slip into the secret door in the alleyway. He would make his way directly to the lake, never allowing himself to ascend the stairs and peek into the tunnels that would allow him to glimpse into the events that were happening on the other side of the walls. That very activity had caused enough trouble for Annie already.

Once he had arrived at his subterranean destination, he would unload the supplies he had brought with him—arranging them with the utmost of care. Everything had to be perfect for the little celebration he had planned to follow Annie's debut. It would be the last time he would see her dance for the foreseeable future, knowing that he was scheduled to depart for Monaco the very next day.

Erik would not tell her that, of course—not until after she had triumphed on opening night. And he had no doubt that she would shine. For even though, thanks to him, she no longer had the role of prima ballerina, he knew his Wild Dancing Rose would remain in no one's shadow.

Erik felt Annie's arms squeeze him a bit more tightly around the waist as she purred, "Well, I think you have found a most excellent way to occupy your time."

"Say that after you taste it, my sweet!" Erik quipped, again looking over his shoulder, happy to see the little smile that lit up Annie's face at his joke.

Erik and Annie enjoyed the perfectly cooked bread and fresh fruit as they sat, side by side, sharing many comfortable smiles and quick cuddles. When they had eaten their fill, Erik shooed Annie out of the kitchen to go get dressed for her big day, while he tackled the dishes.

"Erik, I'm ready," Annie called when she had once again come down the stairs.

He emerged from the kitchen, still drying his hands with a towel and had to catch his breath when he saw her standing there in the parlor, the sun gleaming off her onyx waves, her cheeks flushed with excitement for the day to come. Setting the towel down on the end table, Erik walked over to Annie, and placed his hands on her upper arms.

"You are a vision of loveliness," he told her sweetly, smiling as he looked her up and down. "My exquisite prima ballerina."

"Erik," she said, downcast eyes, "you know I am going to be dancing in the chorus."

"But you will always be my star," he told her, leaning down to brush his lips warmly against her.

When he pulled back, Annie looked up at him with adoration in her eyes, "I love you, Erik."

"I love you too, my Wild Dancing Rose," he whispered back. "And I have something for you."

Annie looked at him in surprise, as Erik crossed over to the china cabinet that stood against the wall and opened one of the drawers. He retrieved a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with a black ribbon.

"These are for you, my angel, to wear tonight," he said, as he handed her the parcel.

Annie gently untied the ribbon, which she recognized as the same black ribbon she had once given him. Unfolding the paper, she saw a delicate pair of pointe shoes, with ribbons that shimmered in the sunlight.

"Erik!" she all but shrieked as she threw her arms around his neck. "They are beautiful!"

"Not nearly as beautiful as you, my love!" He told her, squeezing her tightly in his arms.

"But how could you afford them?" she asked him, pulling away to look questioningly into his eyes.

Knowing that they would not have to pay for the cottage after tonight, he fought to keep the sadness out of his expression, as he answered, "Don't worry about that, Annie. It will be all right. And you should have nothing but the best for tonight."

"Well, I will be proud to wear them on the stage tonight, Erik," she said with a dazzling smile. "And I am going to wear your ribbon in my hair. I want to keep you close to me tonight."

"I will be there with you, Annie," Erik vowed to her, cupping her cheek in his palm. "I will be watching you with so much pride that my heart will be near to bursting. And then we will celebrate!"

"The only way I want to celebrate, Erik, is in your arms!" Annie told him, pulling him closer.

"I am certain that can be arranged," he murmured, lowering his head to claim her lips with his.

Their kiss was slow and tender, but building in intensity as their lips lingered and moved together. Annie teased Erik's mouth open with the tip of her tongue and their arms tightened around each other as they deepened their exploration. After a time, however, Erik pulled back, breathless and trembling.

"Tonight, my angel," he told her, the quaver in his voice making his desire for her plain. "There will be more of this tonight."

"I am going to hold you to that promise, Erik," Annie whispered, stealing another few quick pecks before moving out of his embrace.

"And I am going to hold you all night." Erik teased, huskily. "But first, my darling, you must dance!" he exclaimed with a smile, as he led her happily toward the door.

* * *

The day at the opera house began with a light rehearsal followed by last minute costume adjustments and makeup applications to ensure that everyone was looking their best. The excitement was tangible, with giggles and squeals piercing the air as ballerinas tittered and swirled about their dressing rooms. Madame Delacroix tried to hush them, telling them to save their energy for the stage, but even she knew it was a useless effort. It was opening night—the thrill was just too palpable to ignore.

The only one who seemed immune, to the anticipation all around them was poor Giselle, who kept mostly to herself. Annie overheard her swearing to Marie that her somber mood had nothing to do with her recent break with Philippe—that she was just tired and not feeling entirely well—but Annie could tell that Marie did not exactly believe her.

Although Annie was not yet truly part of the group of girls, she too felt the exhilaration and the wild anticipation of the night that was to come. She had listened to tales of her mother's dancing days, so often as a child and tonight would be the night she would follow in her footsteps. She knew her mother—and her father—would be watching her from heaven. And though she wasn't sure from where, since the managers had sold out the entire house ages ago, she knew Erik would be watching her as well. In her heart, she would be dancing just for him.

It was nearing show time when Annie gazed at her reflection a final time in the mirror. Her white tutu was crisp and bright, with little pink rosebuds accenting the dropped waist where the bodice met the fluffy skirt. She wore white tights and the lovely pink toe shoes Erik had purchased for her, which were a perfect fit. Her hair was pulled back in traditional ballerina style, but circling her bun was the black satiny ribbon Erik had used to tie her package, and she had secured it with the comb he had given her on their first Christmas, so long ago. He would be watching her from somewhere in the audience tonight, but his presence would be with her on stage, marking her as his from head to toe.

When she closed her eyes, she could practically feel his arms encircling her, and pulling her close. The skin on her neck tickled from his breath as he pressed his head against her ear and murmured his congratulations. And as she leaned her head back, his lips would trail down the smooth column of her throat and elicit a quiet whimper as he gently kissed along her collarbone.

With a shiver, Annie pushed her amorous thoughts from her mind, knowing that she needed to focus on the performance to come before she could indulge in the delights she and Erik would share afterward. Moving away from the mirror, she turned to the door to make her way backstage to wait with the other ballerinas.

"Mademoiselle Laramie!"

She heard the voice just as she was closing the dressing room door. Giles Giry stood before her in his evening finery, a dashing smile lighting his face.

"Oh," Annie said in surprise. "Monsieur Giry. I hadn't heard that you'd returned," she said, caught somewhat off guard by the friendly manager.

"Just this morning, in fact," he replied. "I wouldn't miss the opening night of this beautiful theater for the world! And," he added, leaning in toward her a bit jovially "I finally get to see you dance!"

Annie smiled, looking down. "Yes, if you watch very closely, you should be able to catch me in the chorus."

"Mademoiselle," Giles said, his tone sobering just a bit. "I heard about the commotion that occurred while I was away. I would like to officially apologize for the awful insinuations made by our former employee Mademoiselle Sorelli."

"Don't be silly, Monsieur," Annie shook her head. "You were not responsible for her behavior."

"Never-the-less, I am sorry—and I apologize as well for my colleagues' overreaction. They never should have stripped you of the lead."

"There will be other ballets, Monsieur," Annie said, smiling tightly, wishing to put this topic to rest.

"And I have no doubt that you will lead many of them," he responded with a smile. "From what I have heard of your talent, you were certainly born to shine."

Annie blushed as she said, "Thank you, Monsieur."

They stood there quietly for a moment, regarding one another, before Giles commented, "I see you have found a pair of ballet slippers that were more to your liking than the ones I gave you."

And at that moment, Annie remembered that she had been so angry with Babette that she'd left the shoes Giles had given her on his desk without so much as a note of explanation.

"I am so sorry, Monsieur Giry. You must think me terribly rude. I thank you for the gift of the shoes, but these were a gift from my…um…," Annie coughed at the need to once again propagate her most hated falsehood. "…brother, and so I shall be wearing them instead."

"Oh," Giry narrowed his eyes in concern. "Mademoiselle Laramie, are you quite alright?"

"Yes," she said, clearing her throat and once again cursing herself inwardly for the lie. "I'm fine. Just a little…tickle."

Giry smiled graciously, even if the smile didn't reach all the way to his eyes. "Of course."

Again, they found themselves in silence. This time it was Annie who spoke first.

"It was very good to see you, Monsieur Giry."

"And you, Mademoiselle Laramie," Giry responded with a courteous nod.

"I am afraid I must go," Annie said politely. "We are to be at our places soon, and I don't want to be late on opening night."

"Oh, but of course," Giry agreed. "Have a wonderful performance, Mademoiselle."

Annie smiled as she began to walk down the hall. "Thank you, Monsieur."

Giles Giry stood by the dressing room door and watched her go. When she was just about to turn the corner, he called out, "Mademoiselle."

Annie turned to look back at him. "Yes, Monsieur?"

"Would you save me a dance at the gala tonight?" Giry asked, hopefully.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Monsieur Giry," Annie called back, as she continued to take a few steps backward. "I have other plans for after the show…with my brother."

"Ahh, I see," Giry said, doing his best to keep the disappointment out of his voice. "Break a leg, then, Mademoiselle," he added, with a little wave, and then with a mortified expression, added, "Oh, um…not _really_ …"

"Enjoy the show, Monsieur," she chuckled, waving back at him quickly before continuing on her way.

* * *

Erik knew that he would not be able to watch the performance from Box 5, since all seats in the opera house had been sold out completely months in advance. Still, the time he had spent wandering around the tunnels behind the walls had not been all for mischief. There were observation areas everywhere in the Garnier, and the auditorium was no exception. He had discovered a small, maintenance platform, above the chandelier and upon climbing out onto it one day, he found that it afforded him a good view of the stage. The platform was hidden from view, but Erik was sure to wear all black so that if anyone did see him, he would be nothing more than a fleeting shadow.

And so Erik sat there, watching the audience begin to file in. Women in fur coats and opulent jewelry accompanied important looking men decked out in black tailcoats and white bowties. The count was seated in the box reserved for nobility, along with his wife and eldest son. Philippe de Chagny was accompanied by a rather striking blonde. With an expression of disgust, Erik noted that it had not taken the man very long to replace either Giselle or Babette. Apparently there was no expectation of truly noble behavior on the part of the nobility.

The managers were seated in their own private box, and Erik took note of Giles Giry entering the box, a winsome brunette on his arm. Perhaps, Erik thought with a raised eyebrow, Giry had found more than just financial backing on his latest trip. He nodded with satisfaction, thinking that this lady friend should put an end to the cruel rumors tying Annie to Giry—one less thing for Erik to worry about while he was away.

A wave of misery threatened to wash over Erik's heart then at the thought of leaving Annie, but suddenly the orchestra struck the first chord and Erik's attention was drawn to the grand scarlet curtain parting on the stage. The show was about to begin.

The ballerinas were in the opening scene, and Erik gazed in adoration as Annie moved in step with all the other girls. She was elegance and grace personified, and Erik could not help but recall the first times he saw her dance, while he was still imprisoned at the gypsy camp. Even back then, the flush of her cheeks and the swing of her hair as she twirled wildly across the floor of the tent to the strains of his violin could not help but fill his heart with joy. He had probably begun to fall in love with her from that very first moment of that very first dance. And now, even though they had already lived through so much together—had promised their lives to one another—with every arabesque and pirouette, he could literally feel himself falling even more deeply in love with this exquisite woman on the stage. And he could hardly wait to gather her into his arms and tell her that once more.

Eventually, the performance came to an end, and as the applause from the crowd rang out throughout the theater, a single whispered "bellissima" sent shivers down Annie's spine. She looked up and all around her, having no inclination where Erik was, since he had thrown his voice directly into her ear. But before the moment had passed, she heard him murmur again, "I love you, my Wild Dancing Rose." And with tears glistening in her eyes, she took her final bow.


	33. Chapter 33

**The celebration chapter. Fair warning-things get a bit heated...**

CH 33

Annie raised her hand to knock gently at the door of Box 5. She had made sure to take her time getting changed after the performance, allowing the crowd and the other performers to disperse to the Grand Foyer for the gala celebration before she took an alternate route to Box 5, bypassing the main walkways altogether. Erik had told her to meet him here after the show, because he had someplace magical to take her to celebrate. While she had implored him to stop his explorations in the hidden tunnels of the opera house, she had been too intrigued by this suggestion to say no.

"Eri…,"

Before she could even finish whispering his name, the door flew open and Erik was gathering her tightly into his arms, lifting her up into a giant bear hug, and kicking the door closed with his foot.

Annie giggled gleefully, saying, "Erik! Put me down."

"Never!" he exclaimed as he joined her laughter and whirled her around in joy.

"Erik!" Annie laughed, tossing her head back. "I'm getting dizzy!"

Finally, Erik allowed Annie to slide gently down the length of his body, cupping her cheek and capturing her lips with his own once her feet were planted firmly on the floor.

"You were magnificent, Annie!" he told her breathlessly when he finally pulled away from their kiss, his thumb stroking tiny circles on her cheek. "Absolutely exquisite," he added, gazing at her in adoration. "I am so proud of you!" he exclaimed as he leaned in for another kiss.

"I danced only for you, Erik," Annie declared, when they separated again. "In the theater full of people, you were the only one who mattered."

"And even on the crowded stage, Annie," Erik told her tenderly, "You were the shining star."

They gazed at each other in silent joy, savoring this moment of triumph. For Annie, the thrill of the stage paled in comparison to the love she saw now in Erik's eyes, and she could hardly imagine a moment more perfect than this—except, of course, for the day when she would finally become Erik's wife.

"Are you ready for your celebration, my love?" Erik asked with a twinkle in his eye.

"I have your arms around me, Erik," Annie answered. "My celebration has already begun!"

Erik could not resist placing another lingering kiss on Annie's lips, before finally pulling away and reaching for the lantern that glowed gently on the wall. "Come, my darling," he told her. "I have much to share with you tonight!"

Pressing the hidden lever above the mirror, Erik magically made the wall slide inward, then turned and took Annie's hand. Once inside the passage, Erik pressed the matching lever he had discovered in the stone making the wall slide closed behind them.

"And you know how to get out of here, right?" Annie asked, just a slight bit of concern coloring her voice as she watched the dim light from Box 5 quickly disappear.

"Trust me." Erik told her, giving her hand a little squeeze.

"Always," Annie said with a smile, as Erik began to lead them forward into the darkness.

When they came to the winding stone staircase at the end of the passage, Erik made certain Annie's footing was sure before they started their descent, walking always one step in front of her, so that he could be sure to catch her if she were to stumble. Down and down they traveled and Annie was certain they had reached the very center of the earth by the time the staircase finally ended. But Erik smiled at her as she lighted off the final step and gathered her once more into his arms.

"So many stairs, Erik!" Annie said, looking at Erik with wide, questioning eyes.

"We are far beneath the earth, Annie—at the very foundation of the opera house," he told her, with a gleam in his eye.

"It's cold down here," Annie commented, wrapping her arms across her chest. "And damp."

"Do not fear, my love," he told her, putting his arm around her now that they were on steady ground. "I shall keep you warm."

Erik enclosed Annie in his cloak and held her closely against him, tucking her head into the crook of his arm. Holding his lantern out before them, he led them through the stone arches and recessed passageways as Annie gazed in awe at the glistening droplets of moisture clinging to the rough walls. When they had come to a bend in the path, Erik felt Annie suddenly stop.

"I hear water, Erik," she declared in a breathy whisper, a tingle of excitement running down her back.

Erik smiled widely, as Annie looked up at him with a gleam of wonder in her eyes. "Yes, you do."

"Is it the lake?" Annie asked, barely able to contain her excitement.

"Come with me, Annie," Erik said, as he began to guide her around the bend.

As they turned the corner, Annie felt the breath catch in her throat at the wistfully familiar scene before her. If she hadn't known they were deep below the city of Paris, she might have believed they had been magically transported back to their cave in the forest.

The underground lake, about which Erik had spoken, was glittering with the light of dozens of candles that he had scattered about, creating the same soft glow she remembered from when she and Erik would build a fire at night. His violin was lying on the ground in front of the lake, near a basket that looked to be filled with fruits and other delicious treats. Off to one side, Erik had set out the furs and blankets on which they had slept during their time in the cave, her old friend Ami propped up near the roll where they would lay their heads. A single red rose was resting in his arms.

"Oh Erik," Annie said, feeling her eyes fill up with tears. "It's like our home!"

"I know, my darling," he whispered, squeezing her tightly to him as she gazed in wonder at the underground chamber surrounding her. "It was my first thought when I found this place."

"And a rose, Erik," she exclaimed, approaching the stuffed monkey and lifting the bloom from his grasp. Holding the blossom close to her face and inhaling its scent deeply, she turned back to Erik and said, "Just like the first gift you ever gave me. A flower for my hair."

Erik drew near to her, reaching his hands behind her head. He removed the comb that still held her bun in place, and untying the satin ribbon, allowed her waves to cascade down her back. Then he took the rose from Annie's hand and tucked it carefully behind her ear, expertly arranging a few black strands around it. "Red roses have always seemed fitting to your spirit, Annie," he murmured in soft, golden tones. "Both fiery and strong. But not even a rose could ever hope to compete with your beauty."

And tangling his long fingers in her hair, Erik brought his head down for another lingering kiss.

"Mmmmmm," Annie purred, half intoxicated by the taste of Erik's lips. "I want more of those."

"They are yours for the taking, my love." Erik murmured, as he pressed his lips against hers again, in slow, languorous kisses.

Annie wrapped her arms around his neck, twirling his long locks around her fingers. When they finally separated, breathless, Annie sighed, "This night is magical, Erik. Your kisses…this place…." Looking up and all around her, she asked, "How can it be that such an enchanting oasis—so like our beloved home—could exist here, beneath the frantic pace of Paris?"

"I believe it means you were meant to be here—in Paris—at the opera house," Erik said, turning her gently to face him. "This place was intended all along to be your destiny."

" _Our_ destiny, Erik," she said, gazing into his eyes sweetly. " _We_ were meant to be here. Together."

Erik's eyes tightened slightly at the corners, but he tried to keep his smile as he answered, "Yes, Annie. We _were_ meant to be here together…for tonight."

Annie shook her head in confusion, at his melancholy tone. "Why do you say it like that, Erik? What do you mean by for tonight?"

Stroking Annie's face, he told her softly, "It's _time_ , Annie."

Annie felt her stomach begin to loop itself into a knot as the panic spread within her. "Time for what, Erik?"

"I…" he paused to take a deep breath, then quickly spoke the rest of his sentence, wanting to get it out before he lost his nerve. "I'm leaving for Monaco in the morning."

"What?" Annie asked, feeling as if the room were spinning around her. "No…"

"Annie," Erik said, feeling his heart shatter into a million pieces at the stricken look in Annie's eyes. "You knew this was coming."

"Yes, but I didn't know it would be tomorrow!" She protested, her eyes filling with tears. Pushing herself away from him, she asked, angrily, "How could you have kept this from me?"

"How could I have told you," Erik countered, softly, "when it would have ruined your debut on the stage?"

"The stage means nothing to me!" She spat, turning away from him, in an effort to hide the tears that were beginning to stream down her cheeks.

"It is a part you, Annie," Erik reminded her patiently. "To me, it means everything."

" _You_ mean everything to me, Erik!" Annie exclaimed, turning back toward him harshly, losing the battle with her tears. "And I am losing you," she added with a heart wrenching sob.

"No, my angel," Erik shook his head, closing the distance between them so he could take her once more into his arms. "You will never lose me."

"It is hard to believe that," Annie sobbed, "knowing that tomorrow you will be gone."

Pulling a little bit away, Erik tipped her chin up, so he could look into her sorrowful eyes.

"But I am here tonight," he whispered, his eyes pleading. "With you. And we are _together_ —in this magical place. Please let's not waste so much time dreading tomorrow that we forget to live tonight. Being parted from you will be torture, Annie. I have spent hours going over in my mind how I will manage to keep breathing, when your love is like air to me. I think I would welcome the bite of a whip tearing through my skin sooner than I will welcome that moment in the morning when I have to tear myself away from you." And taking her hand in his, he guided her over to the little bed of furs. "So please, Annie—let us not spend this night in sorrow. There will be plenty of sadness come tomorrow. Tonight, I want to feel alive."

Kneeling down on the furs, Erik pulled Annie to kneel down with him.

Looking deeply into Erik's golden eyes, Annie demanded, "Promise me that this separation will not be forever."

Cupping her face in his hands, Erik swore, "I solemnly vow that the only thing that is _forever_ is my love for you. I will _always_ love you, Annie Laramie—with every breath I draw for the rest of my life."

"And I, promise that you, Erik," Annie declared firmly, "will be my waking thought every morning and the final breath from my lips every night." Taking one of Erik's hands in hers and pressing it on her left breast, she added, "For as long as my heart keeps beating."

"I swear," Erik rasped, swallowing against the sudden dryness in his throat, "that I will return to you, Annie. And from that day forward, I will have you…" he added, as his fingers closed around her breast, and his other hand traveled to the curve of her hip, "and _hold_ you…all the days of my life—forsaking _all_ others."

"And I vow, Erik," Annie swore, breathlessly, her fingers raking over his chest, finding the buttons on his shirt, and unfastening them slowly. "That I will cherish you…"

"I will adore you." Erik murmured, lids half closed as his trembling hand slid lower on her leg.

"I will treasure you," Annie whispered back, gasping as she felt Erik's fingers on her bare skin, as they slowly drifted back up to her waist, lifting her skirts with them.

"I will worship you, Annie…" he groaned, nuzzling the hot skin of her throat. "With my heart."

"My soul," Annie added, craning her neck back to give him better access.

"My body…" Erik breathed against her flesh, the hand beneath her skirts, placed firmly on her bottom. He pressed her tightly against him, making his desire for her plain.

"Erik," Annie moaned.

"Yes, my love?" Erik asked, his golden eyes glassy with desire.

"I am yours," she sighed, breathlessly.

"And I am yours," as his lips came crushing down on hers in a deep and searching kiss.

As Annie relished the sweet taste of Erik's mouth, she found the hand that was still resting on her breast and drew it to the buttons lining the center of her bodice. "Please, Erik," she sighed into his lips.

Pulling away from their kiss, so that his shaking fingers had half a chance at completing their task, Erik fumbled at the fastening, but it was no use.

"Dammit!" he cursed under his breath, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks.

Seeing his frustration, Annie took his hands in hers. "Erik," she murmured, "let me help." She brought his fingers to her lips, and kissed them tenderly before she let them fall to his sides. Then, with Erik watching her in captivation, Annie stood and unbuttoned her dress, keeping her eyes locked with his the whole time. When she shrugged the bodice off her shoulders and allowed the dress to fall with a rustle to the floor, a strangled whimper escaped Erik's throat. Annie's shift was thin and sheer in the candlelight, and the curved outline of her body was almost too much for Erik to bear.

"You're so beautiful," he said in awe, as Annie smiled and knelt once more before him. Placing his hands on her hips, he wondered, "How is it that you are mine?"

"I love you, Erik," she answered simply, tilting her head up for another kiss. "I have _always_ been yours."

Erik surrendered his lips once more to hers, as his hands crept up and grasped her breasts, squeezing each nipple between a thumb and index finger. When Annie arched and sighed against him, at the intensity of the sensations, Erik became emboldened and once again reached his hand down to draw her shift up, moving his lips away from hers only to lift it over her head. When she was naked before him, Erik pulled back a moment to savor the sight of her, rendered speechless by her loveliness. Meeting her gaze, and hoping that the fever in his eyes told her all she needed to know, he leaned forward and took one of her plump nipples between his teeth, sucking it farther into his mouth at the raucous sounds of her pleasure.

When Annie once again arched her now naked hips toward his, she was greeted with fabric where she craved flesh. Feeling that it was terribly unfair for her to be naked, and Erik to still be clothed, Annie let her fingers fall to the fasteners on Erik's pants, fumbling just a bit, but finally freeing his arousal that had been straining desperately toward her. At first Erik seemed to tense somewhat, but when Annie tentatively touched the tip of her finger to his length, his head snapped back in pleasure, and he let out desperate, whispered cry, "Oh my angel, _please_ touch me."

Annie curled her fingers around his length, and squeezed, watching, in fascination, as Erik's eyes widened and his mouth fell open in a silent cry. Mesmerized by his reaction, Annie could not help but stroke her hand up and down his hard member, moving the silken skin with her.

Erik's insides were coiling tighter and tighter, at Annie's every caress. So intense were the sensations her touch was creating that he could easily give in right that moment to his pleasure, but he fought with every ounce of control to hold on. This night, Annie would find pleasure too.

"Annie," he gasped her name, out of breath as his hand came down on hers, halting her delectable ministrations. "You must stop."

"Why Erik?" Annie asked, confused, immediately pulling her hand away from him. "Am I hurting you?"

"No, Angel," he was quick to assure her. "My God, Annie, your touch could never be anything but perfection itself." He cupped her cheek and gazed into her eyes, as he added, "But, my love, I don't want this to be over too quickly, and I am afraid if you keep touching me, I will not be able to hold on."

Understanding his meaning, Annie nodded but then asked, "But if I can't touch you, then what's next?"

Erik leaned in close to her and murmured in her ear, "Let _me_ touch _you_." And placing his hands on her shoulders, he gently lay her down on the furs.

Erik reclined beside her, and his hands traced Annie's every curve—his lips tenderly entangling with hers. He paid special attention to her breasts of course, loving the way every squeeze and every pinch elicited a silvery sigh of pleasure. When he felt he could tear his lips away from hers, Erik buried his head in her bosom, alternately licking and nipping and sucking at the most precious of pearls at the tip of each one. Annie moaned and writhed as he did this, and each glorious sound that fell from her lips made his own desire that much more acute.

"Erik," Annie gasped finally, as she clasped his head even more tightly to the nipple he was currently suckling. "I ache for you."

"Mmmmmm," Erik groaned, around her nipple. "Show me where you ache for me, love."

Annie clutched one of his hands in hers, and slowly dragged it down her body to the point between her legs, that was throbbing painfully with every torturously exquisite touch he bestowed upon her body. "Here, Erik," she managed to force out of her throat. "I want you here."

Erik's mouth continued its ministrations on her breast as he slowly dipped a finger into her glistening folds. The blessed heat that surrounded his finger was rivaled in beauty only by the ragged cry that escaped Annie's mouth. Seeing the bliss that spread across Annie's face, Erik began to move his fingers in small circles, and relished in every sigh and every moan, knowing that _he_ was the one who was giving her this gift of pleasure—just as she had done for him.

"Erik," she moaned, near out of her mind with desire. "Please Erik. Make us one."

Erik felt his mouth watering at her request, and sudden nerves set in. "Are you certain Annie?" he asked her. "We don't have to…"

"Erik," she told him in no uncertain terms, looking directly in his eyes. "I _need_ you."

Swallowing hard, Erik knelt between her legs, running his hands lovingly across her thighs, as she bent them upward to cradle him. Placing himself at her entrance, Erik pushed inside her slowly, keeping his own passion at bay while he watched her face carefully for any signs of distress.

Annie's head fell back just slightly, her eyes closing and her mouth opening wide, but releasing no sound.

"Annie," Erik muttered, leaning in closer in concern. "Annie, are you alright? Do you want me to stop?"

Annie did not want Erik to stop. There was no pain at all—just a delicious stretching as he pushed inside her, as her body opened to accommodate him. But when he had shifted to check on her, the sensations that shot throughout her core had taken her breath away, making it impossible for her to talk, impossible for her to breath—impossible for her to do anything at all but want more. Liquid heat was coursing throughout her body, spreading into her limbs, making them feel like jelly. The urge to move her hips upward to meet his was absolutely undeniable, and it was as she was shifting forward, bringing him even deeper inside of her, that she heard his own sharp intake of breath. "No, Erik," she somehow managed to mutter. "I only want you closer."

Erik collapsed his weight onto Annie's body, and she wrapped her arms tightly around him, joining their lips passionately together to complete their union. Together, they moved in perfect rhythm, savoring the rapture that each new thrust would bring. Annie reached her hand down and grasped his buttocks in an effort to draw him deeper—closer.

Erik had been on the brink of his pleasure for far too long. It was taking every ounce of strength he had not to spill himself within her, like he had that first night, and Annie's euphoric touches were not helping him to contain himself. When he felt like he would not be able to hold off much longer, he slid a hand between them and once again found her core. He touched that most sensitive spot between her legs—the one that had made her beg him to make them one—and rubbed feverish circles with his thumb.

Immediately, he felt Annie arch up against him, and tighten her hold around his back. And as she moaned wildly, convulsing around him, Erik succumbed to his own oblivion at last.

 **AN: It's so sad that Erik has to go...but I'd say they got their celebration right this time.**


	34. Chapter 34

**AN: And now, Erik and Annie's celebration continues...at least for a little while.**

CH 34

Annie's mind was a sea of swirling colors, as her breathing gradually returned to normal. She could feel Erik's heart pounding against her chest, as he lay atop her, his head buried in the crook of her neck. Her eyes fluttered open and her lips curled up into a tender smile as she lifted her fingers to stroke his hair.

Turning his face at the feel of her touch, Erik placed tiny, whispery kisses along her jawline, her cheek, her lips. "You are so exquisite, Annie," he murmured, his voice a low purr as his golden eyes finally met hers in the candlelight.

Annie gazed at his adoring face for a moment, regarding the twists and divots that had brought him so much pain in life. She ran her palms across his back and felt the upraised network of scars that were akin to the wounds that marked his chest. She could trace with her fingers every rib, every bone in his still too-thin frame, aware of every imperfection, every flaw, and every disfigurement to her lover's body. And cupping his face in her hands, as she drew him down for a kiss, she whispered, "So are you, my wonderful, beautiful Erik."

Their kiss was deep and tender, the perfect union of souls. And when they finally parted, drinking in each other's essences with the air that they breathed, Erik murmured, with tears in his eyes, "You make me so happy, Annie."

Feeling tears threaten at her own eyes, Annie hugged him to her, squeezing him with all her might. Erik had given her back the happiness she thought her parents' deaths had forever taken from her. He was her best friend, her rock, the one person she could rely on for anything. She loved him with a ferocity she had not known she possessed, and when she was with him, she felt as if she could conquer the world.

The agonizing fact that he was leaving in the morning crept furtively at the edges of her consciousness, but she fought to keep it at bay. There would be time for sadness tomorrow and Erik had begged her for tonight. She could give him that, at least.

Shifting onto their sides, they kept their arms wrapped around one another as they reveled in the new closeness their union had wrought.

"Erik?" Annie asked softly, as she watched his fingers gently stroke up and down the length of her arm.

"Yes, my love?" he murmured, marveling in the softness of her skin.

"Is that…," Annie asked in awe "what it was like for you—that night in

the cottage? Was the pleasure as" Annie blushed as she searched for the right word, "…intense?"

Erik took a moment to consider his answer, before lifting his eyes to hers. "Being one with you for the first time was incredible. But, that night I was awkward, and fumbling, and I…I hurt you." He placed his lips tenderly to her forehead as he added, "My body reached its peak, but my heart felt no satisfaction knowing that you were in pain."

"There was no pain tonight, Erik," Annie told him in wonder. "Only ecstasy as I had never before imagined."

"My Angel," Erik whispered, pressing his forehead against hers. "That is what made the difference. Knowing that you found pleasure—that we shared in it—made it so much more. Your joy is my joy—your pain, my pain. I could never truly find fulfillment unless you found it with me."

"I love you, Erik," Annie whispered, overcome by the devotion she could see in his eyes and hear in his voice.

"And I love you," Erik murmured back, brushing his lips once more against hers for a kiss sweet and yielding. "But," he said, when they once again separated, "One cannot live on love alone."

With a twinkle in his eye, Erik pulled himself to a standing position and scurried over to the lakeshore.

"Erik," Annie called after him, propping herself up on her elbow. "What are you doing?"

"After such a dynamic performance on the stage tonight," he smiled, as he crouched down to retrieve the basket and his violin. "I thought you might have worked up an appetite."

"You already took care of that, my love," Annie smirked, feeling a bit playful.

"Ahhh," Erik smiled, returning to the makeshift bed and leaning over to kiss her lips. "But the body has many appetites—and I fear without the proper nutritional sustenance, Annie, your strength would quickly diminish. And my darling," he whispered huskily directly in her ear, "the night is not yet over."

Feeling a tingle run down her spine at the delicious promise in his voice, Annie purred, "Mmmmmmm. When do we eat?"

With a chuckle, Erik settled himself next to her, and reached into the basket, retrieving several strawberries, holding one of the sweet red fruits to her mouth. Looking at Erik with mischief in her eyes, Annie took a bite, making sure to let the tip of her tongue graze his fingertips even as her lips closed around them. Annie closed her eyes as the juice from the berry exploded delectably in her mouth, a bit of the red liquid dripping down to stain her chin.

Erik swallowed hard as he felt a renewed stirring in his loins from her deliberate display of wantonness. It was absolutely all he could do to keep from leaning forward and laving away the berry juice with his tongue.

"Do you remember, Annie," he asked, his breath beginning to come in harsh gasps, unable, as he was, to look away from the luscious nectar traveling down her chin. "The day the curtain fell in Box 5?"

"Of course I do, Erik," she answered with a smile. "Are you finally ready to confess to how that happened?"

"You were dancing, Annie," he told her in an unsteady voice, still unable to look away from the ribbon of sweet red ambrosia trickling down from her lips. "And I was watching you from behind the curtain, pulling it around me so that I would be hidden. And there was a…bead of sweat dripping down your neck, to your chest, and finally…between your breasts. And I…I just wanted to follow that trail, Annie. I just wanted to be right there—with your luscious body in my hands.

"And as I stood there and imagined how it would feel to sink between those beautiful mounds, my hold on the curtains grew tighter and tighter and I managed to pull the whole thing down, because I…," His voice fell to a husky murmur as he continued, "I just found it so…hard…to hold back. Just as I am finding it very hard to hold back right now, Annie."

Annie locked her gaze intently with Erik's and whispered, "Then don't."

A low growl rumbled in Erik's throat, and he was on her in an instant, licking the juice from her chin. His fingers fisted in her hair as he crushed her lips to his, causing her to cry out lustily from his amorous onslaught.

"My God, Annie," Erik gasped, breathless when his lips finally separated from hers. "Look what you've done to me."

Annie gazed at her lover, his eyes burning with fever, his chest heaving for air. Grazing her fingernails past his taut nipples, to his flat abdomen and the concave hollows of his hips, Annie found his arousal straining in her direction. Allowing her eyes to travel the same path her fingers had, she took in the sight of his jutting manhood.

"I like what I see, Erik," Annie told him, as her fingers closed around the velvety hardness. "And what I feel."

Erik was reduced to a wordless whimper as she stroked him lovingly, leaning forward to lavish hot kisses to his throat and collarbone. A broken moan sounded from his chest when she captured a pebble hard nipple between her teeth, never halting her hand's maddening rhythm. When Erik was nearly delirious by Annie's ministrations, he groaned, "Annie, I. . . I. . ."

Sensing that he was nearing his peak, Annie lay back on the furs and beckoned him, "Take me, Erik. Now!"

Quickly moving between her legs, Erik crashed into her. Where he had been so careful earlier to keep his desire under control, now he made his passion plain with wild and reckless abandon. Not at all cowed by Erik's fervor, Annie met him thrust for thrust, instinctively hooking her dancer's legs around his waist to urge him ever deeper into her core.

When the wave broke with mutual cries of ecstasy, bright lights flashed behind Erik's eyes. Completely spent, he collapsed beside Annie, his eyes wide in astonishment, his lungs heaving for air.

Annie rolled over to lay her head on her lover's chest, feeling his hand come up to lightly rest on her back. She felt tingles still coursing through her body, radiating out to her limbs, leaving them feeling heavy and warm.

"That…" Erik panted, "was exhilarating, Annie."

"Mmmmmmm," Annie purred, snuggling her head more tightly against Erik's heart. "It was amazing."

"You are amazing, my beautiful, wild rose," he murmured, turning to her, and kissing the top of her head as he squeezed her more tightly against him. "You are filled with such fire…such passion…"

"And love," she muttered on a deep yawn, her eyelids falling closed. "Never forget that I am filled to overflowing, Erik, with love for you."

"I could never forget that, my darling," Erik whispered tenderly, rubbing wide circles on her back. "You show me in a thousand ways every day how much you love me."

"I do, Erik," she murmured sleepily, "I love you so much."

"And I love you, my Angel," he whispered, as he heard her breathing begin to steady.

Erik held Annie tightly as she slept, her hair fanned out across his chest. And as Erik's hand continued to rub her back, and the fingers of his other hand twisted lazily in her curls, the euphoria of their union began to ebb from his body. Hot despair started to lick at his mind, filling his heart with apprehension.

There had been so many firsts tonight—Annie's first night dancing on the stage, the first time they had travelled to the lake together—their first sharing in the pleasures physical intimacy could bring.

But this had also been the last night in quite a long time that Erik would feel his lips on hers. The last night he would be warmed by her smile. The last night he would cradle her in his arms while she was sleeping.

Erik winced against the searing pain that filled his chest with the memory that he was leaving in the morning. Could he do it? Could he really walk out the door of the opera house, knowing that he was leaving his very heart behind? He wanted to be a man for Annie, but he truly wasn't certain that he was strong enough.

"Erik, are you alright?" he heard Annie's voice ask, and he realized that his grip on her back had become so tight that he had roused her from her slumber.

"I'm fine, my love," he answered, doing his best to smile soothingly into her quizzical brown eyes. "I'm sorry I disturbed you," he added, stroking her hair. "Go back to sleep."

"We have better things to do than sleep, Erik," Annie said, lifting her head up and claiming his lips in a kiss.

After they had both collapsed in pleasure for the third time that night, Erik could no longer fight off his exhaustion. He rested his head on her breasts, and felt himself drifting off into the oblivion that only sleep could provide. But as his eyelids fluttered closed, he still found himself wondering how on earth he was ever going to let her go.

* * *

Erik had never been one to need much rest, so it was no surprise when he woke a few hours later, to find Annie still fast asleep, her arms wrapped lovingly around him. Gently extricating himself from her embrace, Erik pushed up on his elbows, and gazed at her in her slumber. A serene smile of contentment relaxed her features, making her face seem almost childlike, and Erik was very much reminded of the little girl who had wandered into his tent on that fateful night all those years ago. He smirked, realizing she would undoubtedly take offense at his memory—insisting that she had not been so very little after all—but regardless of her undeniably small stature, Annie Laramie had always been a force to be reckoned with—a bastion of strength. And in her unmovable tenacity, she had always been able to reach down into his very soul.

Glancing to the side, Erik noticed his violin laying discarded beside the basket of fruit they had barely touched in their hunger for one another. Crawling over to where it lay, he took up the worn instrument, fitting it neatly under his chin. Lifting his bow, he coaxed from the strings a well beloved melody, which had grown and blossomed over the years, just like the beautiful woman for whom it was named.

Annie was roused from her slumber on the wings of Erik's music, the sweet, golden melody gently guiding her back to consciousness. Her lids fluttered open to see Erik, his nude form silhouetted by the now waning candlelight, playing his violin. It took her but a mere moment to recognize the tune he was playing, and when she did a sweet smile spread across her face.

"It's your song," she whispered.

"No, Annie," he said back, softly. "It's your song."

Annie smiled, remembering the day in the barn when she had happened upon him composing. She'd managed to persuade him to play his song for her, but he had been quite embarrassed when she saw the name Annie scrawled across the top of the page. He had hurried to cover it up, and had stormed out of the barn, but knowing he had named the song after her, had left her feeling warm and bubbly inside.

"You told me the song was inspired by perfect loveliness," she whispered.

"And so it was," Erik affirmed. "You were my inspiration."

Annie felt her stomach flip flop again, just as it had on that first autumn day, and she crawled over to where he was playing. She wrapped her arms around him from behind, laying her head against his back as she listened, happily to his music.

"It is morning, Annie," Erik said quietly, as he continued to bow.

As the significance of Erik's words sank in, Annie could feel tears gather in her eyes. "No," she whimpered, forlornly, tightening her arms around him, for she was not ready to let him go.

"But it's early…" he added, fully intending to make every moment he had left with his beloved count.

Annie slowly loosened her hold around his back, and slid her way around to face him. Erik lay his violin down beside him, opening his arms to gather her close to him. Annie shifted herself onto his lap, curling her legs around behind him.

Erik gazed deeply into her tearful eyes, the sorrow he found there an agonizing blow to his own soul. Tentatively, Annie lifted trembling fingers to his face, and traced the outlines of his cheeks, both so dear to her—both so adored. "I will miss you, Erik, every moment of every day," she told him, her voice thick with sadness. "And I will never stop dreaming about the day you come home to me."

"You will always hold my heart in your safe keeping, Annie," Erik murmured, tears welling in his own eyes. "For surely it would not be able to go on beating without you."

Annie sobbed, burying her head in his chest, and wrapping both her arms and her legs more tightly around him, "I don't know what I am going to do without you, Erik."

"You will dance, Annie," he told her, his own voice unsteady and strained. "And you will live. And you will never, ever forget," he added, brushing against her with his arousal, that had grown with their nearness, "that even with the distance, we are one."

Annie shifted her hips so that she could take him inside her. "We are one," she repeated his words, causing him to shudder as she enclosed him in her warmth.

Erik kissed her slowly and deeply, his fingers tangling in her hair as their bodies rocked together back and forth. The pleasure built within them steadily, mingling with the sadness they both felt at their impending separation. Erik reveled in the glorious feeling of her breasts pressed up against him, her legs wrapped tightly around him, her arms clutching him ever closer as the waves of ecstasy crashed through their bodies, relentlessly pushing them onward toward their peaks.

How could he ever leave her? he wondered, even as he felt his pleasure rising within him, making his breath start to hitch in his chest. How could he ever leave this?

Annie moaned his name in a ragged cry when the moment took her, the sound mingling with Erik's own desperate growl of release.

The moments after their joining were silent except for the sounds of Annie's soft sobs. Hot tears soaked Erik's shoulder, as she held on to him for dear life. "I love you, Erik," she cried over and over again, as he lovingly stroked her hair. "I'm going to miss you so much."

* * *

The journey to Box 5 was arduous and slow, not at all helped by the fact that they were both reluctant to reach their destination. That was where they would say goodbye, they had decided, Erik knowing that he would worry far too much about Annie's return to the opera house if she accompanied him to the train.

But glancing back at the beautiful woman following him up the stairs, Erik knew he would worry anyway. Annie's eyes were glassy and distant, her complexion in the lantern's glow seeming pale and drawn. Her usual straight, dancer's posture gave way to slumped shoulders, and she looked like she had not smiled in a thousand years. Despite the night of passion and euphoria they had just shared, Annie looked despondent—as desolate as he himself felt inside.

Was this torture he was about to thrust upon them truly worthwhile? They already had a place to stay, and Annie had a position at the Paris Opera House. Surely Erik could be satisfied with that. What did it matter if he was never worth anything in the eyes of any other man? He was important to Annie. Wasn't that enough?

Surely instead of walking out that door to the train station across town, he could instead whisk Annie away to the Church to find a priest in front of whom they could say their vows. He could dispense with this foolish notion of proving himself a man, and be happy living his life out as nothing more than Annie's husband. Truly, would not that title alone mean he was a king among men?

If Annie but asked him, in that moment, to abandon his foolish notion of going off to Monaco, a heartbeat would not pass before he would comply. If she only would look at him, with those beautiful, loving eyes of hers and ask him to stay, he would not be capable of saying no.

But when Annie did raise her watery eyes to his, as they passed through the wall into Box 5, she only said, "I am going to miss you so much, Erik," as she flung herself into his arms. As much as she wanted to stop him—to beg him to stay with her—she knew how important this trip was to him. She had to support him, regardless of how it killed her to do so. She had to give Erik what he needed.

Erik closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of her hair, knowing that no matter how many times they had united in love—no matter how often they had embraced—he would never have enough of holding her close. "I…" he began, trying desperately to hold on to the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. "I will write you every day."

"And I will write to you," She told him, with a sniff.

"You will fill my every waking thought, Annie," he promised her breathlessly, feeling himself on the brink of tears.

"And you will fill my every dream," she swore, the tears beginning to stream down her face. "Oh God, Erik," she cried. "How will I ever sleep without you?"

Gently removing himself from her arms, Erik motioned for her to wait a moment. He opened his knapsack and reached inside, pulling out the little stuffed monkey that she had once given him.

"Ami will be here, Annie, to guard you in your sleep," he told her, holding the monkey out to her.

Annie shook her head, unable for a moment to speak for the sobs that were stuck in her throat. "No, Erik," she protested. "No, Ami goes with you. I gave him to you, to keep you safe against danger."

"And now I give him back to you, Annie," he insisted, pressing the stuffed toy into her arms, "to protect you until I can resume my rightful place by your side."

"Come home to me quickly, my love," Annie pleaded, finally relenting and holding Ami to her heart.

"As swiftly as I can, my angel," he promised, cupping her face in his hands, feeling as if it would be an eternity until he was once again in her arms.

Lowering his head to join their lips in a long, lingering kiss, he felt the last few moments he had to spare with his love slip away. When they at last pulled apart, Erik tried to smile as he quietly told Annie, "I have to go."

Forcing a tearful smile of her own, Annie nodded, "Godspeed, my angel."

Erik walked the few steps to the entrance of Box 5, placing his fingers on the handle. And with one final look at her beautiful face, Erik whispered, "I love you, Annie," as he walked through the door, pushing it shut behind him.

Annie stood there, and stared hollowly at the door, letting her new reality sink in. For so many years she and Erik had been inseparable—no matter what she did, no matter where she had gone, he had always been by her side. But now, her love had left her—Erik had gone. She knew it was not forever—and she knew that when he returned, they would speak the vows that would make them man and wife. But still, his absence hurt. The emptiness she felt, knowing he was gone, was akin to the day that her mother had died. She was lost and broken—and so very much alone.

Slowly, she brought her gaze to the stuffed toy in her hands. Ami had been her loyal friend for so many years, his primary job having been to guard her from monsters, and chase away her nightmares. He had seen her stalwartly through the deaths of both of her parents, and those dark, dismal days living alone in her stepfather's house. But though she clung to the monkey fiercely, she did not think her loyal friend was going to be enough to take away this pain.

"Oh Erik," she cried, bringing the monkey up to her face, as she collapsed to her knees on the floor. "Please hurry back to me."

And allowing her tears to soak into her old friend's fur, Annie knelt there and she cried.

 **AN: Poor E/A! This separation is breaking both of their hearts-mine too. Are they strong enough to weather the storm ahead? I hope so...**


	35. Chapter 35

Ch 35

Erik walked down the long narrow aisle of the locomotive, trying to ignore the curious stares and looks of confusion that were aimed in his direction. Even with his cloak collar turned up and his hat pulled low in an attempt to hide the mask, he remained a curiosity—and curiosity often led to over-loud whispers and ignorant speculation.

 _Look at how he hides his face… Could he be a criminal?_

 _I got a strange feeling about that one . . ._

 _Mama, why does he wear a mask_?

 _Hush! Don't stare!_

Their relentless chatter echoing loudly in his head, Erik finally reached the end of the long pathway, taking an empty window seat at the very rear of the train. A few unlucky passengers had already been sitting there, but they quickly stood and moved to find new seats that would not subject them to the strange figure dressed in all black, save the white facial covering that peeked out behind his fedora. However much the people on the train might like to gossip, in truth, Erik knew, that humankind did not wish to be confronted by what they did not understand. They could ignore him far more easily if he was out of their sight.

So Erik sat at the back of the car, alone and invisible. It was the way he preferred it actually, since he knew he had left the only one who could ever _truly_ see him back at the Paris Opera House. _Annie_.

Oh how his heart twisted when he remembered the tears that had glistened in her eyes at their parting. The memory of her agony was like a dagger in his soul. _What will I do without you, Erik?_ she had asked him plaintively. _How will I live?_

In truth, he was the one who should be asking that question, and in fact he _had_ asked it of himself many times since the idea of going to Monaco had entered his mind. As horrific as the separation had seemed to him, nothing had prepared him for this all-consuming emptiness he felt where his heart used to be or for the heavy weight in his lungs.

He truly had not lived before Annie had come into his life, drifting instead from one horrific situation to another. He had existed, but had never truly been _alive_ until that night when the strange girl with the beautiful eyes looked upon his face and defied his orders to go. It was that moment that had breathed precious air into his lungs—had jolted his heart into beating. And now, without her, there was, once again, nothing.

Erik turned his head toward the window when his tears began to fall, etching hot streams of anguish into his already tortured face. _I promise this torment will be worth it Annie,_ he vowed to her soundlessly. _I promise I will make you proud. And then I will come home to you and make you my wife. Not even death will have the power to part us then._

But as the train pushed on, he felt a chill descend around him, causing his teeth to chatter and his body began to shiver—another stark reality of Annie's absence. It had been years since the cold had affected Erik. He often wore his cloak more to obscure his presence than out of any effort to stay warm. But now it was becoming clear to him that Annie had always been the one keeping him warm.

He had liked to tease her about the way she shivered and snuggled closer to him when a cool damp breeze would blow through her hair. Erik realized now that _he_ had never felt the cold, because he had always had her warmth radiating around him. Likewise, he would often roll his eyes when she would complain about the dark, but now it was obvious that the night never seemed truly bleak to him, because he'd had her light to soften the gloom.

From the moment he'd met her, Annie had been Erik's entire world. Even though he'd always known that, it had never been plainer than now, when he was leaving her hundreds of miles behind.

"Oh Annie," he groaned hopelessly, pressing his forehead to the windowpane, as quiet sobs racked through his body. "I am truly so lost without you."

* * *

Annie knew she was being foolish, as she knelt hunched over on the floor in Box 5, clutching her stuffed monkey in her hands. This is not forever, she reminded herself. _The only thing that is forever is my love for you_ , she heard Erik's promise echo in her ears, as she took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to stem the flow of her tears. This separation would be only temporary—a few months at most, he'd sworn to her—and then he would come back and he would make her his wife _._ And they would be together forever. _This is not forever, Annie . . ._

Utterly disgusted with her endless blubbering, Annie rose to her feet and began to pace the floor. "You can do this, Annie!" she told herself, as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "You are strong. You can do this." _But Erik is your strength_ , the traitorous voice in her mind whispered, and once again looking at the little toy in her hand, Annie felt like crying.

Pressing Ami tightly to her chest and rallying the strength deep in her soul, she fought the urge to crumble. "Erik said I could do this. Erik _knew_ I could do this. I cannot let him down by wallowing here and crying like some…some… _little girl_!" Determined to show the fortitude Erik believed her to possess, Annie lifted her chin, put her shoulders back and let her arms fall to her sides, resolved to get on with the task of temporarily living without her love. But standing there, ready for action, she found she had to ask herself, "What do I _do_?" And she felt her shoulders slump once more.

 _The dormitories_ , it suddenly came to her. She had to make arrangements to move into the dormitories. But in order to do that, she would also have to move out of the cottage.

"Monsieur Giry," she sighed, relieved that her swimming brain could finally decide on a focused course of action. "I have to go talk to Monsieur Giry."

Looking around the Box, to make certain that she and Erik had left no trace of their presence anywhere, she tucked Ami into a pocket in her skirts. Then with a final deep breath, Annie exited the box.

It was a short walk to the managerial wing of the opera house, and on her way, Annie tried to devise some story to explain away Erik's departure, and justify her sudden need to move into the dormitories. Once again, she cursed the lie she'd had to tell when they'd first come to Paris claiming Erik as her brother. It required so much deception to keep up the pretense—and yet to admit that they were unmarried and living together would just not work in polite society. Their history—and their love story—was just too complex to explain. And so she would have to continue for a while longer to fabricate explanations to support the falsehood that she had created—hoping that upon Erik's return, people would accept the truth as easily as they seem to be accepting her deceit.

* * *

Giles Giry was engrossed in the newspaper reviews from the previous evening's gala performance. All in all, the press had looked upon the Opera Garnier's opening night as a success, the only caveat being that the lead ballerina had seemed a bit wooden and uncertain in her role. Giles found that he agreed with the critique, having felt that same way as he'd watched the show from the Manager's Box. He had paid special attention to the ballet, excited to finally see his discovery, Antoinette Laramie, dance. Though she was simply one of many in the ensemble, it was clear to him why she had been originally selected for the lead. She stood apart from the rest—her elegance and grace clearly commanding the stage. And if Giles were honest with himself, her beauty had made it difficult to look away as well.

The ball afterward had been a tedious affair. Oh he had reveled in bragging to the opera's financial supporters and in displaying the Garnier's lavish opulence to its hard won patrons. But when dancing with the lovely Sophia, who had served as his companion for the evening, he found himself woefully distracted. Gazing into her piercing blue eyes, as he made small talk, he found that he was imagining a pair of rich brown ones smiling back at him. So completely preoccupied was he by thoughts of Mademoiselle Laramie, that he ended the evening with nothing but a peck on the back of Sophia's hand, leaving her to feel rather perplexed. Many had been the night when Giles had eagerly accompanied her inside her apartments for considerably greater displays of affection, but it had not felt right, last night, to lie with one woman while his mind was plagued by visions of another. He greatly hoped Sophia would forgive him for his slight.

"Yes," he called, looking up from the newspapers at the sound of a businesslike knock.

The door opened and revealed Antoinette Laramie seeking entrance into his office.

Giles stood slowly in surprise, coming around his desk to approach her. "Mademoiselle Laramie," he asked with a jovial smile. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"I…" she began, her voice firm and unwavering. "I have an important matter I need to discuss."

"But of course, Mademoiselle," he responded, gesturing toward the chair on the opposite side of his desk. "Please come in."

Annie nodded, her eyes darting away from his face, as she walked into the office and took the offered seat. Giles's brows knit together in unease as he watched her. There was something off about her demeanor today. She was stiff and formal, and not at all the sweet, personable young woman he had come to know. Quietly shutting his door, and coming around to take a seat at his desk, he regarded her. There were dark circles beneath the eyes that would not meet his. Her complexion was pale, and he was almost certain she looked as if she had been crying.

"Mademoiselle Laramie, is everything alright?" he asked her in concern, tenting his fingers together on his desk.

 _No_ , she thought. "Yes, Monsieur," she answered out loud. "Everything is fine, but I…I need to move into the dormitories."

Leaning back in his seat, Giles looked at her in surprise. "The dormitories, Mademoiselle? I thought you absolutely did not want to do that, considering your brother was in need of your care. Is something wrong with the cottage?"

"No," Annie took a deep breath, getting herself ready for her lie. "The cottage is just fine. It is my brother, Monsieur."

"Has he taken a turn for the worst?" Giles asked apprehensively. As strange as he found the man to be, he wished nothing but the best for him, since he was important to Antoinette.

"No, Monsieur," Annie responded, wishing Giry would simply let her recite her fiction and be done with it. "In fact, he has had a change of fortune."

"How so, Mademoiselle?" Giles asked her, twirling a pencil in his fingers.

"Well, you see, Monsieur," Annie answered, finally getting to the details of her lie, "we received a telegram about an elderly…relative."

"A relative?" Giles asked, having thought that they had no living family.

"A very distant one, Monsieur," Annie assured him. "She…died, and…"

"Oh, I am so sorry, Mademoiselle," Giles interjected, reaching out and taking her hand.

"It's alright, Monsieur!" Annie snapped, snatching her hand back in irritation that he kept interrupting her. But seeing Giry's look of shock, she adjusted her voice and she used her hand to smooth her skirts. "What I mean to say, Monsieur, is that we weren't close to her. Yet she was aware of Erik's…affliction…. Having died childless, she left her money to him—so that he could perhaps find some help for his malady."

"Oh," Giles said, taken aback. "Well this is good news."

"Indeed," Annie agreed, even while every bone in her body felt otherwise. "It is. He left last night for a hospital in Switzerland…"

"Last night?" Giles asked, perplexed.

"Yes…after our…celebration. He left by a specially arranged carriage."

"Oh," Giles responded. "I see."

"Good." Annie said. "Well, then you see, Monsieur Giry, that I no longer have need to reside at your cottage. I thank you for its use, but it is far too big for me alone. I…would rather move into the dormitories."

"Of…of course," Giry nodded. "With Mademoiselle Sorelli gone, I am certain it will be an easy task to find a vacant bed. You can move in this afternoon and be settled in time for this evening's performance. I will get the carriage ready," he added, rising from his chair, "I'll take you back to the cottage, whenever you're ready, to pick up your personal items and bring them back here."

"Oh, Monsieur Giry," Annie rose with him. "I do not have much at the cottage. I am certain I can manage on my own. Especially since I know there is much business to which you must attend."

"Oh, well…" Giles scratched the back of his neck and looked down, nodding. "Are you certain, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes, Monsieur," Annie nodded. "Quite."

"Um…alright then," he told her, walking her to the office door. "As you wish."

"Thank you, Monsieur Giry," Annie said, with a tight smile that he noted did not reach all the way to her eyes. "Once again, I do appreciate your kindness."

"Of course," he told her, opening the door. When she had walked a few steps down the hall, he called out after her. "Mademoiselle Laramie?"

"Yes, Monsieur?" she turned to look at him.

"Your dancing last night…" he swallowed hard against the sudden lump that was in his throat. "It was magnificent."

"I thank you, Monsieur," Annie said politely, as she turned to go.

* * *

The loud peal of the train whistle gave Erik a jolt. The last thing he remembered, he had been sobbing in sorrow and uncertainty of how he was going to live without his beloved Annie. He must have fallen into slumber in his lamentation—the mostly sleepless night previous mingling with his depths of despair to finally compel him to surrender to the fatigue in his soul.

He lifted his forehead from the cold hard pane of glass that had been serving as his pillow. Day had given way to night, and the city before him glowed with tiny beacons of light. The tower of the great palace beckoned from a short distance away, and as the train pulled to a halt, Erik could see that clusters of people were still out and about, enjoying the nightlife that the glittering city afforded them.

Erik waited until most of his fellow passengers were off the train, before rising slowly and securing his knapsack to his back. He strolled to the front of the car, keeping his eyes trained on the ground. As he passed through the exit, he heard a voice greet him with a friendly tone.

"Good evening, sir," said the kindly conductor as Erik stepped off the train.

Erik raised his head slowly to pin the older man's gentle blue eyes with his golden ones. The conductor gasped with surprise as he gazed upon Erik's masked face, his eyes glowing in the dim light. Clearing his throat, and collecting himself, he stammered, "Wel…welcome to Monaco."

Erik nodded curtly as he continued on his way.

 **AN: Kind of a move along chapter, but they've both taken their first steps toward living on their own-sad steps though they may be. :(**


	36. Chapter 36

CH 36

Erik did his best to fade into the darkness as he walked the short distance from the rail yards to the hotel where Charles Garnier kept a room. Although there appeared to be a bustling nightlife in Monaco, the dim light provided plentiful shadows in which he could escape the revelers' attentions. Taking in a deep whiff of the salty breeze blowing off the sea, he kept his head low as he silently pressed on his way.

Annie's absence was a constant emptiness in his chest that he knew only she could fill. Nevertheless, traces of anticipation were beginning to build inside him as he drew closer to his destination. Charles Garnier was an architectural genius with whose work Erik had an intimate acquaintance. He could hardly contain his excitement at the thought of meeting the man, and working beside him—and perhaps being afforded the chance to discuss with him his rather unconventional design for the opera house where Annie, even now, should be dancing.

As he walked, Erik's excitement transformed into nerves. Was the kindly foreman right about Garnier? Would the man truly be able to look past Erik's appearance and lack of experience and offer him employment? Since completing the Paris Opera House, Garnier had become a very well known name in Parisian architecture. He could command any crew he wished. Why would he care to take a chance on a boy with no background in the business—one with a hideous face to make matters worse?

 _Oh, Annie,_ he thought, wishing with all his heart that she were there right then, since she was the only one with the ability to calm his troubled soul. _I may have caused us all this grief of separation for nothing. What if he won't have me?_

By the time Erik finally reached the hotel, he had halfway convinced himself that the best course of action would be to buy a return ticket to Paris immediately. To his right, however, he was met with the very building upon which he hoped to work, and thoughts of leaving slipped from his mind. The Monte Carlo Casino was a beautiful and elegant structure built atop a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. It was here that the well-to-do of Europe flocked to when they wished to part with their money. Monte Carlo had been largely responsible for revitalizing Monaco's floundering economy, some fifteen years back when Homburg Casino owner, Francois Blanc, purchased the business from Prince Charles III. He turned it into a thriving vacation spot, and now, to increase the already large draw, Charles Garnier had been commissioned to add an opera house.

Erik stood in front of the building for a few moments more, caught up in its stately grandeur when he heard a voice remark, "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

Startled a bit, and irritated with himself that he would lower his guard enough to be caught unawares, Erik made no answer except to turn slightly and glance at the man now standing beside him. Much shorter than himself, the man's gaze was trained upon the building before them. His hair was an unruly cloud of brown curls atop his head, and a mustache curved from beneath his nose, to the sides of his mouth, extending below his bottom lip.

"Such pomp and regality!" The man continued, still staring ahead at the grandiose structure. "And to think! I have been asked to add an opera hall!" Pausing briefly to shake his head a bit in wonderment, the man added, "It can only add to its grandeur."

Erik's eyes widened at his words. _He_ had been asked to add an opera hall—this eccentric looking man with the wild curls who had just happened upon him in the street? _This_ was Charles Garnier?

"Monsieur Garnier?" Erik questioned softly.

Erik saw the man's mouth turn up in a smile as he began to turn his head, answering, "Ah, so you know my name. Well, sir, that puts me at a disadvantage as I do not…" Garnier's voice faltered as his cool grey eyes caught sight of Erik's golden ones peering out from behind his mask. For a moment, the older man seemed taken aback, but he quickly recovered and finished his sentence, "know yours."

Swallowing his nerves, Erik said, "I am Erik sir."

Garnier cocked his head to the side and his eyes narrowed a bit in recognition. "Are you the boy Pierre sent?" he asked.

Knowing Garnier was referring to the foreman who had forwarded his recommendation, Erik nodded. "Yes, Monsieur."

The smile on Garnier's face broadened, and Erik suddenly felt Garnier's palm on his upper arm—the man's other hand grasping Erik's right hand and pumping it up and down enthusiastically. "Welcome, son," Garnier said kindly. "Pierre said very good things about your character. I am happy to have you on my crew."

"I…" Erik began, a bit startled by Garnier's warm welcome, having been the recipient of precious few of them in his life. "I do not have much experience in construction, sir."

"Well, we'll just have to fix that, won't we?" Garnier remarked. "Are you just getting into town?"

"Y…yes sir," Erik answered. "I just arrived from Paris."

"Ahhh yes," Garnier remarked, with a shake of the head, "I am from Paris myself. Worked a very long time there too. I am very happy to now be here," he chuckled.

Erik smiled vaguely and nodded. "Why, yes sir. I am well acquainted with your work there."

"Yes? Tell me, then," Garnier's eyes glistened with excitement. "Have you been by the

Opera House?"

Erik's own mouth turned up into a grin. "In fact, I have, sir. Many times."

"Oh, splendid!" Garnier effused. "What do you think of it?"

"It is magnificent, sir," Erik insisted with whole-hearted sincerity. "With many… _remarkable_ features."

Charles Garnier let out a hearty laugh, "Oh, Erik," he said, patting him jovially on the shoulder, as he began to lead him in the direction of the hotel. "You don't know the half of it!"

* * *

"All right, ladies," Madame Delacroix called out, with a tap of her baton, as the music stopped. "I do believe that is enough for today. You may go back to the dorms for a few hours. I want you all fresh for tonight's performance."

Annie released a heavy sigh and ran the back of her hand across her forehead. It had been a demanding rehearsal, but one that she knew had been sorely needed. Now that regular performances were running in the opera house, it would not do for the dancers to become complacent in their roles, and Madame Delacroix made certain that it would never happen. So they continued, every afternoon, to temper and hone every nuance of the routine they would perform at night.

The hours were long and they were grueling, but Annie relished the hard work, for when she was dancing she was able to forget. Forget the two rows of cots in the long bare room that was filled constantly with the chatter and giggles of girls she barely knew. Forget the eternal loneliness she felt, despite the fact that she could never find a moment alone. Forget the long, cold nights she lay awake in her bed, unable to sleep for want of a pair of strong arms wrapped around her, and lips that would whisper a lullaby with gentle kisses to the top of her head, her nose, her cheeks.

It had been a week since Erik had gone—seven days of exhausting rehearsals and fatiguing performances. Annie had immersed herself in the physical grind, finding that it was the only thing that could help her combat the hollow ache she felt inside. While the other girls groaned at what they thought were Madame Delacroix's unreasonable demands, Annie only pushed herself harder. While most of the ballerinas could not wait to return to the comforts of their cots, Annie often remained in the practice rooms long beyond what was required of her, in an effort to keep her sadness at bay. This was exactly her intention, as she lowered her body into a split , when she was met with the tip of Madame Delacroix's baton.

"I said it was enough," the demanding, but fair ballet mistress reminded when Annie lifted her head slowly along the line of the cane to meet her firm gaze.

"But Madame," Annie protested. "I am not tired. I…"

"They will be serving supper in the dining hall shortly, Mademoiselle," Delacroix interjected in an unyielding tone. "You will be there. No more skipping meals."

"I am not hungry, Madame," Annie tried once more, knowing her argument would be futile.

"You must eat, Mademoiselle Laramie," Delacroix repeated. But then, with her eyes softening, she reached out her hand to help Annie up adding, "Your mother would always skip meals too, when there was something troubling her heart. But you are my charge now, and you _must_ keep up your strength."

Grasping the mistress's palm, Annie nodded, and said, "Yes, Madame. Thank you."

Annie dutifully left the rehearsal room, and began her reluctant journey to the private living quarters of the Garnier, still feeling too drained to have any interest in food. She did not fancy spending the next several hours in the company of the other ballerinas. While none of the girls had been outright rude to her—not the way Babette had been—they still barely acknowledged her presence. She had no illusions of ever being a closely-knit member of the group, and as far as she was concerned, that was just fine. She had been on her own from a very young age—except for Erik, whose absence she was feeling more and more keenly with every step away from the rehearsal area. She wondered if she could sneak back in once Madame Delacroix had slipped away…

"Mademoiselle Laramie," she heard the genial voice call out from the adjacent manager's wing.

Annie glanced down the hall to see Giles Giry waving to her with a smile on his face. Still wearing his long tan overcoat, he held his gloves and top hat in his hand, indicating that he had recently returned from business outside the opera house.

"Good afternoon, Monsieur Giry," she called, stopping to wait as he hurried to catch up to her. She was truly grateful for the temporary distraction his sunny presence would provide, for unlike the other dancers, Giles Giry's never-ending kindness rarely failed to make her smile. He had been a constant benefactor since she'd arrived in Paris, and she appreciated his support greatly now that Erik was gone.

"I was hoping our paths might cross today," he said, slightly out of breath, his bright blue eyes glinting in satisfaction at their chance meeting.

"And why is that, Monsieur Giry?" Annie asked pleasantly.

"Well, aside from wanting to inquire as to how you are faring in the dormitories…" he paused, and tilted his head forward, asking, "How _are_ you faring, Mademoiselle?"

"I am fine, Monsieur," she answered with amusement. And then, when he only continued to smile, she asked, "What was your other reason?"

His eyes crinkling a bit at the corners, he asked, "Excuse me, Mademoiselle? Other reason for what?"

"For hoping that our paths might cross," she responded with a little laugh at his absentmindedness.

"Oh, yes," he said, as if he were just then remembering that there was, indeed, another reason. Reaching into the inner breast pocket of his coat, he explained, "I was at the post office today, checking on correspondence for the opera house." He retrieved a white envelope that was a bit wrinkled and battered at the corners. Holding it out to her, he continued, "This was there, addressed to you."

Her breath hitching in her throat, Annie reached her hand out for the missive. _Antoinette Laramie_ she saw printed on the front in the familiar elegant scrawl she recognized so well. _Erik had written!_ Suddenly, her fatigue was gone and she felt energized and rejuvenated.

"I presumed it to be from your brother," Giles said, watching Annie's features light up at the sight of the letter.

"Yes," she nodded, with a smile, still staring at the beloved handwriting on the front of the envelope. "It is from Erik." Then looking up and meeting Giry's eyes, she said, "Thank you." In her excitement, she threw an arm around him in a brief hug. "Thank you so much, Monsieur."

"You…" Giry answered, caught off guard by her sudden show of affection. He brought one hand up to awkwardly pat her back, and said, "You are quite welcome, Mademoiselle. I…" he added, as Annie pulled away. "… assume you have been missing him?"

"Immensely," Annie nodded, trying to contain her excitement.

"Well," he coughed against the sudden dryness in his throat, looking down hoping that she could not see the redness that was currently spreading across his cheeks. "I shall leave you to read it, then."

"Thank you again, Monsieur Giry," Annie said sincerely. "I truly appreciate you collecting this for me."

"Of course, Mademoiselle," Giles nodded with a smile, as he turned and walked back down the hall to his office closing the door behind him.

Annie felt herself on the verge of both joyful tears and uproarious laughter as she stared at the letter in her slightly trembling hands. She could not wait to tear it open but she had to find a private place to do so, where she would not be disturbed by a bevy of curious girls, who excelled at prying into other people's business. She wanted to keep her moments with Erik entirely to herself.

Suddenly, it hit her—the private boxes would be empty for at least another couple of hours, before the attendants came in to prepare them for the evening performance. Erik himself had, several times, found solitude in Box 5 while he waited for her to be done with her day. Certainly it would be the perfect place to sit and read his letter.

She turned, hurriedly, on her heels and ascended the stairs that would lead to the private box. Quickly turning the handle and pulling the door closed behind her, she sat in one of the red cushioned chairs before breaking the seal on the envelope.

 _My Dearest Annie,_ she read and felt her heart skip a beat.

 _Oh how I long to be holding you in my arms, relating to you in person the things I wish to share, instead of pouring my thoughts out onto a lifeless piece of paper. For the ink in the well could never be as true a black as the onyx waves that cascade down your back, and the scratch of the quill could never replace the warm strains of your beautiful voice. The parchment is an unfeeling recipient of my communications, whereas I know you would welcome them with the warmth of your embrace and the press of your lips on my own. And yet, my love, imperfect as this missive may be, it will have to do, until I can once again feel the tickle of your breath against my skin, your beating heart pounding against mine._

 _Monaco is beautiful, Annie. Nowhere near as beautiful as you, but delightful and charming, none-the-less. The sea is ever present, with the rhythmic crash of the waves providing a steady ostinato for the events of the day. The kiss of salt in the air permeates the nostrils and tickles the back of the throat. The casino is already magnificent, and will surely become only more resplendent when the opera house is complete._

 _Yes, Annie, I got the job! In fact, I received an exceedingly warm welcome from Charles Garnier himself! Apparently, the foreman, whose name is Pierre, was not entirely upfront about the extent of his friendship with Garnier. However, the man was willing to hire me on Pierre's good word alone—for which I will be eternally grateful._

 _Garnier himself is a fascinating man. After our chance meeting outside the hotel, he escorted me inside, and showed me his plans for the opera he is to build. It will be very much like the Palais Garnier, Annie, only in miniature. Its smaller scale will not, however, find it lacking in any degree of ornamentation. Lush swaths of crimson and rich shimmers of gold will regale every inch of the premises. There will even be a grand chandelier, Annie—the elegance of which, in my opinion, rivals even the one at the Garnier! The main distinguishing factor will be the row of windows that will allow the patrons a view of the glistening Mediterranean Sea! It will be magnificent Annie, and I am truly humbled that I will have a hand, no matter how small, in erecting it. What a thrill it will be to know I have contributed to its construction._

 _Not nearly as great as the thrill, however, that will come when I am home with you again. I miss you, Annie—more than I even thought possible. The perpetual ache in my chest is an eternal reminder that a part of me is missing, and I will never be whole until I can once again feel your creamy skin beneath my fingertips, and gaze once more upon your ravishing face. The excitement of the job, Annie—it pales in comparison to the brilliance of your smile, the music of your laughter, the ecstasy of your touch. Thoughts of you take my breath away, my beautiful rose, and I cannot wait until the time comes that you can once again leave me breathless in person._

 _Until that day, I will dream of you every night, my beloved. And in my dreams, you are in my arms._

 _I love you, Annie. My heart beats only for you._

 _Yours,_

 _Erik_

Annie closed her misty eyes and let her head fall back, pressing Erik's letter to her chest. How her heart throbbed for want of him. "Oh Erik," she whispered miserably. "Without you, _my_ heart hardly knows _how_ to go on beating."

There was so much in the letter to be happy about. Erik had made it safely to Monaco. His idol, Charles Garnier, had accepted him with open arms. He would have the chance to work on a project he cared very much about. And yet, he was so far away.

She sat there a few moments more, hot tears streaming down her face, her breath leaving her body in quiet, ragged sobs. But then, folding the letter in half, and placing it back into its envelope, Annie rose to her feet and dried her eyes. She knew the box keeper would be in shortly to make certain all was arranged for the ticket-holders, and Annie could not afford to be found here, sobbing her heart out when the woman arrived. She had a performance for which to prepare.

Tucking the letter into her bodice for safekeeping, Annie exited Box 5 and made her way through the now quiet halls back in the direction of the dormitories. She was just about to open the door to the private quarters when the opera physician suddenly appeared, Giles Giry at his side. Brushing past her in a hurry, the doctor pushed open the door and rushed to where one of the dancers was laying passed out on the floor, a throng of girls crowding around her.

"Give her some space," the doctor commanded gruffly, gesturing for the girls to move out of the way. "For God's sake let her get some air!"

Annie looked over at Giles questioningly. With a final glance at the scene unfolding before them, Giles leaned down to whisper to Annie, "I was working in my office when one of the dancers ran in to say that a girl named Giselle had passed out. I fetched Dr. Janvier straight away."

Nodding, Annie looked back to the floor, where it appeared that the doctor had been successful at resuscitating the flame haired dancer. She was now sitting up, her elbows on her knees. Her head rested against one hand, while in the other, she held a glass of water that one of the other girls had procured for her. The doctor was speaking with her quietly, and she was nodding her head, when she suddenly burst into tears. Janvier rose and Marie knelt on the floor beside her, taking the younger ballerina comfortingly into her arms.

Dr. Janvier walked back toward the doorway just as Madame Delacroix appeared.

"I just got word that one of my girls has taken ill," Madame spoke, alarm clear in her voice. "Doctor, what has happened?" she demanded.

With a roll of his eyes, Janvier looked at her. "Not ill, Madame," he told her plainly. "Not ill at all. No, your little dancer has gotten herself with child."

And with a snicker at the horrified woman's look of surprise, Dr. Janvier nodded to Giry as he went merrily on his way.

 **AN: Well, some of you predicted this would happen to poor Giselle and now it has... Although, I daresay she didn't exactly get HERSELF pregnant, like Dr. Janvier implied. Hmph! Some men!**


	37. Chapter 37

CH 37

Annie stood among the Corps du Ballet as they congregated at the door of the opera house to bid the copper haired ballerina goodbye. Marie had carried her one small suitcase to the coach, securing it to the back before folding the younger girl in a sturdy embrace. Once she was seated with the door securely closing her in, Giselle looked out through the window and gave them all sorrowful wave before the crack of the coachman's whip set the carriage on its way. It was the second goodbye Annie had experienced within the span of eight days, and while it was less heartrending than the first, it was still extremely jarring.

She recalled the events of the previous night, as the dancers were readying for the evening performance.

"When did you know?" one of the girls had asked curiously.

"I suspected earlier this week," Giselle responded in exhaustion, "but only the doctor's words confirmed it in my mind."

"Is it Philippe's," another girl asked, earning her a cold glare from Marie.

"Yes," Giselle sighed sadly. "It could only be Philippe's."

"Have you told him?" another girl piped in.

"Of course she has not told him, you dolt!" Marie snapped, at the end of her patience. "Did you not hear her say she wasn't sure until today?"

"It would not matter if I told him or not," Giselle responded, miserably. "You all…" she paused to take a deep breath. "You all saw what he was doing with…with…," her voice trailed off, not able to say the name of the former ballerina with whom her lover had betrayed her. Gathering her strength, she continued, "He…never loved me."

"Oh Giselle!"

"That might not be true…"

"It's his child…"

"Perhaps if you told him…"

"You will do no such thing!" Madame Delacroix's voice cut through the girls' chatter, as the entire room went silent.

The girls all turned to face the severely dressed woman who had just entered the dressing room. Her expression was stern and rigid yet there was something in her demeanor that told Annie she did not relish saying what she was about to say.

"You will not tell the future count about the child," she commanded. "You will have no further contact with him or any other member of the de Chagny family. You will not be dancing in the show tonight, and…" she took a breath, as if bracing herself for her next words. "Tomorrow morning, you will be leaving the opera house."

Annie heard the other dancers gasp as Giselle's face crumbled with shame. Marie patted her friend's back, an expression of shock and outrage on her face.

"Madame," Annie heard herself say in a steely voice, before she could think better of it. "This is hardly fair."

Delacroix turned her forbidding gaze toward Annie, raising an eyebrow as she said, "Fair or not, it is the managers' decision."

"Philippe de Chagny had just as much to do with this situation as Giselle," Annie pressed on, against her better judgment. "Why is she bearing the brunt of it alone?"

"Because Philippe de Chagny is a nobleman by birth," Delacroix informed her with a tight smile, irritation clear behind her eyes, "and the son of the opera house's chief patron. This affords him certain…," she took another deep breath before continuing her sentence, tightening her expression even more, "privileges."

"The privilege of abandoning his own child?" Annie asked, incredulously. "And the woman who is bearing it?"

"Mademoiselle Laramie!" Delacroix snapped sharply. "I would advise you to watch your tone and remember to whom you are speaking. It is a woman's responsibility to protect herself against such… _unfortunate_ …occurrences—and to always remember," she spat, addressing the entire group, "noblemen do not marry dancers! Not even ones who are carrying their bastard children!" Taking one last steadying breath and lifting her head, she regained her composure, before adding, "Dancers, I expect to see you all at places for your first cue. Mademoiselle Fontaine, you will be filling in for Mademoiselle Bonnet'. Mademoiselle Bonnet'," Delacroix continued, looking at Giselle. "I would suggest you use this time to pack. The carriage will be here early tomorrow morning." With a crack of her baton, Madame Delacroix turned and exited the room.

The room immediately burst into a flurry of activity, as Giselle broke down in tears and the rest of the girls crowded around her, trying to be of some comfort. Annie stood off to the side, watching the situation with her hands curled into fists. This situation was deplorable, and she felt utterly powerless to do anything to help. Philippe de Chagny had declared his love for Giselle. He lured her into his bed with the promise of a future together, all the while carrying on a torrid affair with Babette Sorelli on the side. He always knew his dalliances with both women were completely meaningless—fully aware that because of the _privilege_ of his birth, he would never have to bear any responsibility or shoulder any blame if something like this were to happen. And now, when the more innocent of his two lovers found herself to be carrying his child, she was being stripped of her dream of dancing on the stage, just to spare the count's son any embarrassment. It was disgraceful. It was reprehensible. It was unfair!

 _"_ _Fair or not, it is the managers' decision."_

Without a word, Annie stormed out of the dressing room, slamming the door behind her. She stalked down the hall to the managerial wing, and pounded on Giles Giry's door.

"Mademoiselle Laramie," Giles began, a smile lighting his features as he opened to door and stepped to the side to allow her entry. "I was not expecting…"

"How could you?" she demanded, brushing past him to get into his office. "How could you be so unfair?"

Eyebrows knitting together at Annie's obvious ire, Giles closed the door and turned to her, "I'm sorry, I don't understand…"

"Really?" she retorted, her eyes aglow with indignation. "You don't understand that Philippe de Chagny is just as much to blame as Giselle for her current predicament? And yet you would send her away without even informing him that she is carrying his child?"

Taking in a deep breath, Giles exhaled loudly before beginning calmly, "Mademoiselle, please believe me…"

"I _don't_ believe you!" she spat angrily. "When I was alone…when I needed help…you were there for me. You offered your cottage when you barely even knew who I was! Why me, Monsieur Giry? Why did you help me, when you are being so cruel, so unfeeling, so…."

"Antoinette, please listen to me!" Giry exclaimed, his blue eyes blazing as he finally lost hold of his calm, professional demeanor.

Startled by the curt tone of his voice as well as his use of her first name, Annie just stared at him. Tension and defensiveness were clear in his expression, as well as a touch of…regret? After a moment, Annie looked down and quietly said, "I'm listening."

Giles inhaled deeply to calm his nerves. With a quiet, shaky voice, he said, "It was not my decision. Monsieur Richard and Monsieur Moncharmin…outvoted me. They were afraid of the scandal that a pregnant dancer would bring upon the opera house. They do not wish to lose the Count's patronage."

"The Count's son plays a large part in this scandal," Annie stated, but in quieter tones.

"I know, and I agree with you," Giry told her. "But the nobility does not always enjoy being forced to own up to its mistakes."

"They are forcing _her_ to leave," Annie added softly. "In the morning."

"I am aware," Giles told her, nodding gravely. "The carriage is arranged…"

"Can you not convince them otherwise?" she implored him.

Looking at the plea that was clear in her eyes, Giles wished nothing more than that he could. "I did try, but Moncharmin and Richard simply would not hear of it. The opera house policy is that dancers who are showing signs of pregnancy cannot perform—and since she cannot dance, she cannot stay. We do not run a boarding house."

"She is not showing yet," Annie tried one last time to make him see reason.

"But she soon will be," Giles answered. "Plus, with the added problem of the Count's son being the father…they thought it best she leaves immediately."

Annie nodded, looking down at the floor. She believed that Giles had, indeed made the effort to convince the other two hardheaded managers to give Giselle a chance. Still, it did not make her feel any better about the situation. "I apologize, Monsieur Giry," she said not looking at him, as she turned to go. "For taking up your time."

"Mademoiselle Laramie," Giles exclaimed, rushing to beat her to the door. "Wait!"

Annie glanced up and saw a look of desperation on his face.

Giles swallowed the lump in his throat and said, "I apologize for using your first name earlier…"

"It is alright, Monsieur Giry," she said, shaking her head to dismiss his worries.

"No. It…" he quickly added. "It signifies a familiarity which I have not yet earned. I meant no disrespect."

"None taken," Annie assured him. "I apologize for barging in here and raising my voice to you. I had no right."

"You were angry," Giles told her. "And you had good reason. I admire your willingness to defend your colleague and I am flattered that you felt you could express yourself to me."

Annie looked down and nodded, not at all certain what to say.

"And I want you to know, Mademoiselle Laramie," Giles added more softly when Annie said nothing. "That I would do it all again."

Annie looked up at him with narrowed eyes. "Do what again?"

Giles chuckled to himself, "I do seem to have an inability to make myself clear when I am speaking with you." With a sheepish smile he added, "But I want you to know that I would choose to help you again. I would offer you my cottage. I would encourage you to audition here. I would not change anything about the way I have treated you."

"Why?" Annie questioned.

"Because I knew from that first moment," Giles told her with a nervous smile, "that you were remarkable. The way you steal each night's show as a member of the ballet, and the way you stormed in here to do battle for your friend simply confirms what I always knew was true. You are very special, Mademoiselle Laramie."

She gazed up into his kind blue eyes, and shook her head sadly, before saying, "So is Giselle."

And with that, she'd turned the handle and walked out the office door.

In the morning, Madame Delacroix watched as the hired coach carried Giselle away from her fondest hopes and dreams. Finally, with a cluck of disgust, she turned away from the road and looked at her dancers, shaking her head. "Our numbers are dwindling, ladies," she told them. "First we lost Babette and now Giselle—and ironically because of the same man. Let this be a lesson to all of you!" she added, holding a finger up to make her point. "Keep your legs closed! And whatever you do, don't get pregnant!"

She stalked off in irritation as the crowd of girls began to disperse. Rehearsals would not start for at least another hour, and as Annie took her time walking to the rehearsal room, Giselle's situation weighed heavily on her mind. It was not fair. It was not right.

They had prohibited Giselle from even telling Philippe that her child was his, but would anything have changed if he'd known? According to Madame Delacroix and Giles Giry, the answer was no. The Aristocracy played by different rules than the rest of society. Their _privilege_ allowed them to ignore their mistakes, overlook their responsibilities. If they get caught in an affair with an unmarried girl, they simply get the girl fired from her job. When they impregnate a lover they have no intention of marrying, they have no problem sending the lover—and the child—away. It is of no concern that the woman will have to scrimp and save every penny that she manages to earn, while the man lives out a life of luxury. It is easy for a nobleman to forget that the child— _his_ child—will never know a minute of the privilege he so enjoys. It is simply a minor inconvenience—a small blemish that is easily swept under the rug.

A real man, Annie knew, would never behave that way. He would no sooner betray his lover than he would abandon his child. A real man would meet his responsibilities. A real man would marry the woman and help her to raise the child. A real man like… _like_ …

 _Erik!_

Annie stopped in her tracks as she recalled the night before Erik left for Monaco. It had been a magical night when they had spoken vows to one another—promises of everlasting love, and a future spent together forever. They had sealed those vows with acts of love—consummating their bond with their hearts, their minds and their bodies. Was it possible that in their passion for one another _they_ had created a life? Could it be, that even now, she might be carrying Erik's baby?

Annie's hands trembled as they clasped together over her abdomen. Oh, would that it were true! Being pregnant with Erik's child would be the answer to her prayers.

Erik would be absolutely overjoyed to know that a new life had been created through their union. Annie knew he would do all that was within him to care for her and the child. He would marry her immediately, of course, declaring before the entire world that she and the baby were his family. Obviously, she would no longer be able to dance at the Garnier—Giselle's situation had proven that!—so staying in Paris would no longer be an imperative. She could move with her love to Monaco, where he would continue his work with the esteemed Charles Garnier. They could live together, she, Erik and the child, in a little home by the sea, and when she was recovered from giving birth to their baby, she could dance in the magnificent opera house that would bear her love's own mark. What did she care if she danced on the Paris stage? A stage built by Erik's own hands would be far greater, in her opinion.

Annie's spirits rose as she turned back toward the dormitories, feeling suddenly hungry for the breakfast she had skipped earlier that morning. Her hands continued to hover by her middle, feeling for the first time in a week, that perhaps she was not so very alone after all.

* * *

The full moon cast a soft glow on the swirling black waters below Monte Carlo, as figures both imagined and remembered spilled onto the pages of Erik's sketchbook. Laying the heavy stones for the opera house's foundation had been long and arduous work—but Erik was happy to do it, since he knew that each stone set in place was a step closer to his future. And though it was clear that the rest of the crew merely tolerated him for his strong back and eagerness to work, Erik found that being a part of building the new opera house stimulated his imagination. Visions of soaring heights and gilded angels swam in his mind, encouraging him to press on even as his muscles screamed in protest at their harsh treatment.

But now the backbreaking work had temporarily ceased and day had ebbed and flowed into a long and lonely night—made all the darker because Annie was not there to share it with him. The scent of sea salt burned his nostrils, making him long for the sweet fragrance of rose petals floating up from his beloved's hair. Sleep would not come to him, since his cot seemed to be so much rockier than the ground on which he had slept for years, using Annie's bosom as a pillow. Every second the darkness drew on was a reminder that his heart was not with him, and so he forced his mind to expel onto the page the images his work inspired, since he knew this was the only way he would survive this separation.

So absorbed was Erik in his work, that he never noticed the shadowy figure approaching in the darkness until he was right beside him.

"Do I not keep you busy enough during the day to inspire rest at night?" a familiar voice teased. "Do I need to give you heavier stones?"

Erik startled, once again irritated with himself for letting the man catch him off guard. Closing the book out of instinct, Erik turned to face his employer. "Monsieur Garnier! I did not expect to see you here."

"I might say the same about you, Erik," the older man smiled, lowering himself down beside his employee. "Having trouble sleeping?" he asked, looking out at the water before them.

Erik nodded, "I am, sir."

"So am I," Garnier responded. "It is difficult to sleep when there is so much to consider…" his voice trailed off as he stared out at the horizon, and Erik detected a wistful note to his gaze that signified his employer was thinking about more than the opera house. They were quiet for a moment, both lost in their own untold thoughts, until Garnier looked over at the book that lay across Erik's lap. "Sketching, I see?"

"I had hoped, sir," Erik said, by way of explanation, "that it would help to clear my mind."

"Did it work?" Garnier asked.

Erik sighed, looking down at the book in his lap, "No sir, it did not."

"Never does for me, either," Garnier sighed, and once again, Erik noted a tone of regret in his employer's demeanor. "May I see what you've been working on?" Garnier asked next.

Erik's chest tightened in dread. "Oh, sir," Erik tried to dissuade him. "It was nothing. Just some scribbles. Nothing worth your attention."

"Looked like more than that to me," Garnier retorted, not willing to let his mysterious employee off the hook. "Besides, it is a _company_ sketchbook," he added, raising his eyebrow at Erik for emphasis.

"I…I apologize sir," Erik said nervously, since he had, in fact, procured the book from the supply store in Garnier's makeshift office.

"No need to apologize," Garnier dismissed his contrition with a wave of his hand. "I have been watching you, Erik. You do fine work, son—and probably more than your share. I do not begrudge you the sketchbook. I only wish to see what you have been filling it with."

Feeling slightly nauseated, Erik passed the book over, stating, "I am, as always, your obedient servant, sir."

Erik barely breathed, as Garnier opened the cover, the soft rustle of pages seeming to pull all of the oxygen out of his lungs. "Erik," Garnier said quietly after a moment, "perhaps you have talents we have yet to explore."

Erik did not know how to respond to the man's implied compliment, simply looking out silently over the inky waters below.

"These designs…" Garnier muttered, peering with great interest at the scribbled illustrations on the page. "These ideas are…remarkable." He turned another page, "So elegant…so graceful… and yet, perfectly functional."

Erik turned his head slightly so that he could take in the sight of his employer poring over the sketchbook with care. He could not believe what he was hearing. Charles Garnier—the genius behind the Paris Opera House—was thumbing through his sketches, and he _liked_ them? How was this possible?

"Why did you do this, here?" Garnier asked, gesturing to a point on the page. Erik looked over at the book and saw that the man was pointing to the drawing Erik had done of the grand chandelier that was to be installed once construction was completed. Only Erik had made his own modifications. "Candles? To what end?"

"Well, sir," Erik cleared his throat and responded. "I do believe candles have a timeless charm."

"We have plans to wire the thing for electric light—just as we did in Paris."

"Yes, sir," Erik tapped the page excitedly, "But I believe by using electric lights fashioned to _look_ like candles instead of globes, we can preserve old world charm while still providing the latest in modern convenience."

Slowly, Garnier nodded, the right side of his mouth turning up into a smile. "I like it," he exclaimed. "I would like to show this design to the craftsman, if you agree."

Erik felt a bubble of excitement build up in his chest. "Of course, sir," he nodded, still in awe that Charles Garnier wanted to use one of _his_ ideas for the opera house.

"I thought Pierre said you had no training in architecture or design," Garnier continued, as he turned the page and saw another of Erik's designs—this time the interior of a stately home.

"That is true, sir," Erik confirmed.

"Then where did you learn so much about design?" Garnier asked, turning his face to look Erik directly in the eyes.

"I did much reading…as a child," Erik began, trying to frame his boyhood loneliness in a more positive light. "I had a strong interest in other places. Far away places…" he said, as he recalled how often he'd dreamed of just running away to escape his mother's abuse, only to wind up captured by new abusers once he finally had. "I … greatly admired the buildings I would see illustrated in books. And I took to drawing them thinking one day…" _One day I might escape_ , Erik finished his thought silently.

Garnier's eyes narrowed as he regarded his new employee. From the guarded expression in the boy's eyes, it was obvious that there was more to his story—and much of it was probably unpleasant. Still, his drawings in the sketchbook were outstanding, and even more noteworthy because they were a product of natural talent.

Turning back to the sketchbook, Garnier turned another page, and the smile on his face widened. There was no building on this page, nor any plan for an extravagantly decorated interior. No, on this page, he looked upon a drawing of a girl in a tutu, her neck curved in an elegant arch, her cherubic face angled upward triumphantly, with a long trail of black waves flowing behind her.

"She's beautiful," Garnier said simply, and he watched Erik's exposed cheek redden, his eyes soften, and a look of pure joy relax his face.

"She is…" Erik began, his voice wistful with his sudden longing for Annie, "my fiancée."

Garnier gazed at Erik in surprise. "Your fiancée?" he asked. "She is a dancer?"

"Yes, Monsieur," Erik nodded, his eyes still gazing upon the picture. "At the Opera House in Paris."

Garnier smiled even wider when he realized that meant she was dancing on a stage he himself had designed. "Pardon me, Erik," he began in a jovial tone. "But if this woman, who is in Paris, has agreed to marry you, what in the hell are you doing here?"

Erik chuckled a bit despite himself at the tone of disbelief in Garnier's voice. "I am giving her a chance to come to her senses," he said, joking a bit on his own. But then, in all seriousness, he said, "I could not find a job in Paris, Monsieur Garnier. No one would give me a chance, because of my…" Erik paused, hesitant to mention his one feature that caused him the most shame. Garnier had yet to ask Erik about his mask, preferring to judge upon his efforts rather than his appearances. Erik knew, however, the man must have noticed, so steeling himself for a discussion he did not want to have, he finished his sentence, "my mask."

Garnier was quiet a moment more, understanding that the mask was a point of great discomfort for his young employee. Still, he was curious. "Why _do_ you wear the mask, Erik?" he asked conversationally, as if Erik's answer, either way, would have little bearing on how the man would think of him.

Taking a deep breath, Erik explained. "I was born with a deformity, Monsieur," he said gravely. "My…face… is hideous. Not even my… mother…" he forced out the word with some difficulty, "could bear to look upon it. And so I have worn a mask my whole life." Erik's eyes fell back to the inky waters of the Mediterranean, as if they could somehow wash him clean of his imperfections.

Garnier truly felt for Erik, this clearly talented young man who had obviously met great rejection because of the misfortune of his face. The few words he spoke said much in terms of the sadness that must have plagued him his entire life. Having always been a sickly man, Garnier could relate to some of the difficulties Erik must have faced, and he was very grateful, in that moment, that Pierre had sent this fine young man to him. After another moment of quiet, he asked, "But she?" gesturing to the beauty on the page. "She has no problem with the mask?"

"Oh, she despises the mask," Erik laughed again, remembering the scoldings Annie had given him over the years when he would forget and wear the mask in her presence. "But her answer is for me to not wear it at all when I am with her—which is something I doubt very many other people could wish of me."

"Then you have cleaved yourself to a very fine woman indeed," Garnier said, with a smile. "For she obviously understands that a man's worth is not in his face, but in his deeds, and in his character. You must miss her terribly."

"I do," Erik said, feeling the ache in his chest intensify as he remembered how Annie would gaze upon him with all the love in the world filling her eyes—how she would touch him as softly as she would a precious gem. "I do."

"Then make her proud, son," Garnier smiled, with a fatherly affection. "And get back to Paris and marry her!"

Smiling, Erik looked at his employer. "You sound very much like her, Monsieur."

The two men shared a laugh then, and Garnier flipped another page. When he turned his head to glance down at the sketchbook, he caught his breath in a loud gasp. "Erik!" Garnier exclaimed. "How can you know?"


	38. Chapter 38

CH 38

To his own shock and dismay, Erik suddenly realized his employer was currently looking at sketches of the tunnels behind the walls in the Palais Garnier. Damn! He had forgotten he'd drawn those.

"Sir," he began trying to remain calm. "I can explain."

"Please do!" Garnier said, as he looked up at Erik, surprise evident on his face. "I never thought anyone would find those tunnels."

"If it makes you feel better," Erik began, hoping to mollify the man, "I don't think anyone else has."

"But how did _you_?" he asked again, in utter amazement.

"Well sir," Erik began, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks at the memory of how exactly he _did_ find the first tunnel. "It was an accident."

"An accident?" Garnier asked incredulously.

"Yes," Erik tried to explain, clearing his throat. He stared steadily at the ground as he recounted the situation, hoping the older man would not notice how he suddenly struggled to speak, due to the sudden dryness in his throat. "Annie and I were in Box 5, and she was…leaning against the mirror, and I…well, I… placed my hand on the wall, and…"

A broad smile washed over Garnier's features as he patted Erik on the back. "Well done, son!" And with a hearty laugh, he added, "I never imagined a little afternoon dalliance would lead to the discovery of the tunnels! Of course, I never imagined _anything_ would!"

Trying hard to swallow his mortification, Erik implored him, "Please sir—do not think ill of my Annie. We were…"

"Young and very much in love!" Garnier supplied, trying to put Erik's mind at ease. "That much is obvious in the way you speak about her. And don't you worry, son. Louise and I had our moments in that building. I spent fourteen years of my life there—sometimes the _only_ moments I had with my wife were in the opera house. Still—I thought those tunnels would stay hidden forever."

"Well, sir, when I leaned my hand against the wall, I managed to trip the lever. It would never have been noticeable to the naked eye. If we hadn't been…" Erik's voice trailed off, when he felt his cheek begin to color again.

"I know, Erik. If you and your fiancée hadn't been carnally engaged against the wall, you never would have been in a position to find it."

Clearing his throat, Erik looked down and said, "Precisely, sir."

"You've obviously told no one about this." Garnier stated more than asked. "I am certain a discovery of this sort would have made the papers…"

"No sir," Erik shook his head. "We told no one."

"But you did explore…?" the older man asked.

"I did sir," Erik conceded. "And I found them absolutely fascinating."

When Garnier only raised an eyebrow at Erik's words, he continued his tale. "You can see everything from those tunnels—absolutely everything that you wish to observe that is going on in the opera house."

"And I'm sure much that you might not want to see," Garnier remarked. "Did you find anything…unusual?"

"Well," Erik coughed, remembering the scene he had witnessed between Philippe and Babette. "In fact, I did sir," When Garnier said nothing more, Erik decided to change the subject. "But why are they there? And why does no one know about them?"

Taking a deep breath, Garnier stated, "It all started when the Emperor declared war on Prussia. Paris quickly fell into shambles— and construction on the opera house was halted indefinitely. People were too poor to keep food on their tables, much less worry about constructing a luxurious opera house. The partially constructed building that was to be my masterpiece became a barracks and a store shed—for ammunition. My wife and I had to take refuge there briefly, when the bombing in our neighborhood became too intense. We had nowhere else to go, so we hid down below, by the underground lake, until the fighting stopped. That's when we came into contact with the leaders of the Commune.

"The Commune ruled France for only a short time, but the seeds of the movement had been in existence for far longer. Once my wife and I were in residence at the opera house, they insisted I work for them. They demanded that I install 'false walls' with observation points, so that they could watch, undetected, any moves that their enemies might make. Having no real choice, I did—hiding the inner workings carefully so that no unwitting soul might find them and stumble into hell. For though, to outward appearances, the Opera operated as a military encampment, and sometimes even a hospital, behind those walls lay true horror. They committed horrific crimes on the poor souls they imprisoned there," Garnier commented, shaking his head sadly, with eyes that seemed to focus far, far away. "Bodies routinely floated on that lake."

Exhaling heavily, Garnier finished his tale. "By 1873, the Commune had been overthrown, order was restored, and construction on the building resumed in earnest when the Rue Peletier conservatory burned to the ground. The only reminder that the Commune had ever been in possession of the building was the occasional skeleton that would turn up near the lake—the ghosts of past transgressions. The tunnels had always been a secret—one that I cared not to share. Since the false walls were already so pervasive to the building, and the project already long overdue, I made the decision to simply leave them in place. No one would know about them. No one would use them. They would forever be my secret."

Garnier regarded Erik thoughtfully for a moment, as the weight of the tunnels' true origins sunk in to the younger man's psyche. After a pause, he said, "But now you know too. I must consider what to do about that."

Erik looked at his mentor in confusion. "Sir?" he asked, not certain what the older man meant.

"You have no plans to take up residence beneath the opera, son, do you?" he asked, with a serious look on his face.

"What? No!" Erik asked in shock.

"No intentions of using the secret space to spy on any hapless performers, or to commit acts of mischief or torture, do you?"

"Monsieur!" Erik exclaimed, horrified. Had Garnier somehow heard tales that there was a ghost haunting his opera? Had he assumed, quite correctly, that Erik was the source of the ghost's deeds? "How can you…?"

Garnier finally broke into a smile and expelled a hearty laugh at the look of sheer outrage on his young employee's face. "Just a bit of fun, Erik! I know you would never do any of that! But still," he added, his face taking on a serious expression, "Knowledge of those tunnels is a weighty responsibility. I never want word of them to seep out. The men who died there so hideously—they must not be disturbed. I trust that my secret is safe in your hands—and, of course, the hands of your beloved Annie."

"It is sir," Erik assured him, relieved that his employer had merely been joking.

"Well Erik," Garnier said, rising to his full height. "Tomorrow will be a long day. We need to finish laying the foundation and be on to the next task tout de suite." Extending his hand to offer Erik assistance, he said, "This opera house cannot take fourteen years to complete. We are on a strict time table, and I am not that young anymore."

Clasping Garnier's hand and rising to his feet, Erik smiled. "Well, I would hardly call you old, sir."

With a smile, Garnier responded, "Reliable, talented _and_ good with flattery. I knew there was a reason I liked you, son."

Chuckling, as they began to walk back to the hotel, Erik said, "Thank you, sir."

"Erik," Garnier said, once again patting Erik on the back, "Now that you know my deepest and darkest secrets, I think it is high time you started calling me Charles."

* * *

 _It was dark when she found him, sitting upon a cluster of rocks along the seashore. His fedora was pulled down low to cover his face, his black cloak billowing behind him in the ocean breeze. The sad strains from his violin were what had called her to him, and she took a moment to just listen to that exquisite music that she had missed so much before she walked up to him, placing her hands on his shoulders._

 _"_ _Erik," she whispered, seductively, as he lifted his mask covered face to look at her in surprise._

 _"_ _Annie?" He asked in wonder, shaking his head back and forth in disbelief. "Is it really you? Are you really here?"_

 _"_ _Yes, my beloved," she murmured warmly, a smile brightening her dark eyes as she reached forward and removed the mask—as was her right. "I am here."_

 _"_ _But how?" He asked, still not understanding. "Why? You are supposed to be in Paris."_

 _"_ _No, my love," she shook her head, as she lazily loosened the ties on his cloak. "I cannot be in Paris."_

 _"_ _But Annie, why not?" Erik's brows knit together in confusion. "Why are you not dancing?"_

 _"_ _Because I am pregnant, Erik." She said, her fingers trailing down the flat of his chest, as she unfastened his buttons one by one. "You left me carrying your child."_

 _Erik's eyes grew wide, and his jaw fell slack, as she pushed his shirt apart, leaning in to kiss the flesh of his neck, his collarbone, his chest._

 _"_ _In truth?" He asked incredulously. "My child is within you?"_

 _"_ _Yes, my love," she nodded with a smile, taking his hands in hers and placing them gently on her abdomen. "Even now, your babe stirs within me." And leaning in close, she purred into his ear, "Just as I wish you to do."_

 _Erik slid off the rocks then, sweeping her into his arms, and kissing her with all the passion, all the desire he had kept at bay these past few weeks without her. They fell to the ground, shedding their clothes with much haste, and laying down upon Erik's cloak, joined their bodies with blissful abandon once more._

 _When they were both sated, with the cloak wrapped around their still naked forms, Erik kissed Annie on the forehead, on her eyelids, on her cheek. "My angel," he murmured into her sweet smelling hair, "we shall be married in the morning."_

 _Releasing a contented sigh, Annie purred, "That is all I ever wanted, my darling."_

 _"_ _I am sorry about the opera house, my rose," he whispered, kissing her lips. "For though you do not say it, I know you also wanted to dance on the stage."_

 _"_ _You shall build me a stage," Annie told him, her eyes aglow with love. "And nothing will ever match the grandeur of being your wife, of raising your child, and dancing on a stage you built with your own hands. I love you, Erik. And my greatest dream will come true in the morning, when you take me as your bride."_

 _"_ _And what a perfect bride you will be," Erik sighed as he claimed his lips with hers once more, shifting his body again over hers, to unite them a second time._

Annie woke at the clang of the morning bell with a smile on her face. Most mornings she would have already been in the rehearsal room, not having been able to find rest. But last night, she'd slept like the babe that she dreamed was growing in her belly.

Erik's baby.

 _Their_ baby.

She lowered her palms to her abdomen, and felt warmth spread inside her. They would be a family—she, Erik and their child. _Is this how it felt, mother,_ she wondered to herself. _When you discovered that you were carrying me?_ Her parents had told her they were overjoyed when they learned about her impending arrival. _I think I finally understand,_ she thought in silent connection.

It was a day off at the opera house, the theater being dark that night. After surprising the other ballerinas by joining them for a quick breakfast—since she knew her child needed nourishment—she slipped back to the room so that she could dress for her day in private.

She allowed herself a moment to examine her form in the full-length mirror, placing her palms against her still-flat belly. Her body showed no outward signs of being with child, and was still lithe and trim as any dancer's form would be. She had not yet felt faint, and there was no nausea at the sight of food. It was obviously too early to experience any of these tell tale signs of a new life growing within her. But soon, she knew, her abdomen would swell with the physical evidence of Erik's love.

 _How would he feel about that?_ she wondered briefly, as she slowly pulled on her stockings and let her shift fall over her head. Would he still desire her when she was round and heavy with his child? She knew that other women fretted over whether their men would still find them attractive during pregnancy, but when Annie paused to consider the question, she could only laugh at the absurdity of it. An image of her being as large as a house flashed in her mind, and in her vision, Erik knelt before her and kissed her distended abdomen as if he were already showing affection to his unborn child. She knew there _was_ no question with Erik. He would love her no matter what.

When she was dressed, she reached under her pillow and retrieved the letter she had written the night before. The performance had long been over and the other ballerinas had fallen asleep when she'd slipped silently out of her room and tiptoed back to Box 5, paper and pen in hand. There was so much that she'd wanted to tell him—so many hopes she'd wanted to share, as she pulled up a chair to the very same ledge where she and Erik had once almost consummated their love. But she knew she couldn't tell him about the baby until she had some confirmation—some proof that her dream had come true.

 _My Beloved Erik,_ she had written in the glow of light that the lantern provided.

 _I am so very proud of you. I knew that you would get the job in Monaco. It does not surprise me that Monsieur Garnier welcomed you so warmly—as you have said, the man is a genius. Certainly, he must be able to recognize it in others._

 _So much has happened since I saw you last. I have moved into the dormitories as you insisted, and since then, it has been quite difficult to find a moment alone. In fact, I have had to slip away to Box 5 in order to write you this letter in private. It still has the reputation, among the more superstitious of the ballerinas, of being the haunted box, so I suppose you could say I have taken up the mantle of the ghost!_

 _The other girls have been…pleasant to me. They are not cruel and vicious like Babette. But we_ have _lost another dancer. Giselle was found to be with child—Philippe de Chagny's child. The managers forbade her to tell him that he was going to be a father before they sent her away. "Noblemen do not marry dancers," they said, and they wished to avoid further scandal. It saddened me to see her leave, but though I tried to plead her case, there was nothing to be done._

 _I miss you constantly, Erik. Truly, Paris seems to shine less brightly without you. I have been practicing very hard, trying to fill my days with endless work—so I don't have to think about the part of me that is missing. But often, especially at night, that gap is too big to ignore._

 _But your letter, my darling, gives me hope... I am so excited to hear about this opera house overlooking the sea. Perhaps one day, I shall grace the stage that you helped build. Perhaps you can even accompany me on your violin—The Masked Musician and the Wild Dancing Rose together once more. And after we perform, we can frolic in the ocean waves, and make love under the stars. I do not need Paris to find fulfillment, my darling. I only need you._

 _I miss you._

 _I love you._

 _Forever . . ._

 _Your Annie_

On her way to the post office, she stopped in at the bookstore, to pick out a new novel. It was a bright sunny day, and her certainty that her separation from Erik would soon be over, had her feeling light of heart. After mailing off her letter, she planned to spend the afternoon in the park, reading under the sun.

She had just stepped out of the post office when she heard a friendly voice call her name.

"Mademoiselle Laramie!"

She looked up to see Giles Giry, dressed in his long tan jacket, top hat and gloves, standing before her. With a smile, she answered, "Good day, Monsieur Giry."

"Quite a beautiful morning you have for your day off, Mademoiselle, is it not?" he inquired, a bright smile spreading over his face.

"Indeed sir," she agreed with a nod.

"Do you have any plans for this glorious day?" he asked her, with a wave of his hand.

"Well, I just mailed a letter to Erik…"

"Oh Mademoiselle," Giles interjected. "You could have left it at the desk in the dormitories. I would have seen to it that it was mailed."

"It was no problem, Monsieur," she insisted. "I wanted to mail this letter myself."

"Ah, very well then," Giry conceded. "And for the rest of the day?"

"Oh, I had just planned on spending it in the park," Annie said with a shrug, "doing some reading and soaking in the sunshine. Nothing special, really."

"On the contrary, Mademoiselle," Giry shook his head with a smile. "Those plans sound quite delightful."

"And yourself, Monsieur Giry?" she asked out of politeness.

"Nothing quite so lovely, I am afraid. I have some business at the cottage this afternoon…"

"At the cottage?" Annie interrupted, her brows knitting together in concern. "I hope I left it in an acceptable state?"

"Oh yes, of course," Giles dismissed her inquiry with a wave of his hand. "Just…a new tenant moved in yesterday."

"Oh, I see…" Annie responded, relieved that there was nothing wrong with the house she and Erik had shared for a short time. "That was quite fast."

"Indeed," Giry agreed, nodding. "The opportunity just…presented itself."

"Pardon me," came the voice of a slightly exasperated older lady carrying a package. It was then that Annie and Giry noticed they were blocking the door.

"Oh dear," Giles said, as they separated to let her through. "I'm terribly sorry, Madame."

With a curt nod and a grunt, the woman entered the post office.

"Well," Annie said with a smile, once the woman had passed. "Have a good day, Monsieur Giry." She began to walk past him on her way to the park.

"Mademoiselle Laramie, wait!" Giry exclaimed, holding his palms up to stop her.

Annie paused, regarding him quizzically. "Yes, Monsieur?"

"Well I," he stammered nervously, looking down now that Annie's attention was trained on him. "I was just wondering—would you mind if I join you for a while—at the park? It's just the sort of thing I would love to be doing today. And I don't have to be at the cottage until after lunch…"

Annie smirked at his awkwardness. The man did have such a difficult time asking a direct question. She wondered briefly, how he ever managed to do his job? Certainly, petitioning wealthy gentlemen for money was more difficult than asking to join an acquaintance in the park.

"Suit yourself, Monsieur Giry. I wouldn't mind the company."

Giles Giry took in an audible breath and smiled so bright Annie thought she might be blinded. "Shall we, Mademoiselle Laramie?" he asked, extending his arm out for her to take.

With a roll of her eyes, Annie shook her head and laughed. "Oh, come on, Monsieur Giry," heading off before him, not taking his arm. "No need to be so formal."

Giry swallowed his embarrassment that she had snubbed his gesture, and hurried a few steps to catch up to her. "If you do not insist upon formality, Mademoiselle," he said, once he was walking by her side. "Might I suggest you call me Giles?"

"Is that proper, sir?" she inquired, giving him a sidelong glance. "I am in your employ."

"But we are not at the opera house," he protested. "And I have requested it of you."

"Very well," she responded, looking once again ahead of her. "If ever we meet outside of the opera house, you shall be Giles. And I…" she glanced back at him again, in a friendly manner, "shall be Antoinette."

"Antoinette…" he repeated softly, stopping a moment to savor the sound of her name on his lips.

"Do not fall behind, Monsieur," Annie called, snickering to herself as she continued walking.

"I thought we agreed you would call me Giles, Mademoiselle," he protested, hurrying to catch up again, since Annie had continued walking.

"And I thought I was to be Antoinette," she teased, turning the corner at the end of the street, chuckling once again, as he emitted a frustrated huff.

Their pace slowed once they reached the park, and instead of sitting down to read, they instead strolled the well-kept grounds, pausing to drink in the scents of the flowers in the small beds lining the path.

"I take it that your brother fares well?" Giles asked, loosening his ascot. The sun was warm, and he was carrying his topcoat over his arm and his hat and gloves in his hand.

"Erik?" Annie responded, joy lightening her steps as she said the name of her beloved. "Yes, quite well, thank you."

"So his treatment is successful so far?"

"His treatment…" Annie's voice trailed off, forgetting, for a moment, the lie she had told about Erik being off at hospital. But then, recovering, she exclaimed, "Oh yes! In fact, I think I may be seeing him very soon."

"Is that so?" Giles asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise, as the sounds of happy children chasing each other in games of tag filled the air. "I am pleased that he is doing well." Then, his face taking on a look of concern, he added, "But, Antoinette, I wish I had known. Like I said, there is a new resident in the cottage and I…"

"Do not worry, Giles," Annie said, as they came to a small footbridge overlooking a pond. "If Erik returns to Paris, we will no longer require the use of your cottage. I am glad you found a new occupant." Annie smiled as she leaned her elbows on the railing to watch a bevy of swans swim past. Soon, she thought, she might also be leaving Paris, trading in her dormitory room for a house by the sea big enough for three.

"So," Giles asked quietly, placing his palms on the handrail and peering at her from the corner of his eye. "Am I forgiven?"

"Forgiven?" Annie questioned, still gazing out at the calming water.

"For the situation with Mademoiselle Bonnet," he said nervously.

Taking a deep breath, Annie turned to him and said, "I still do not think Giselle's treatment was fair. She was not alone in conceiving that baby and it burns me that Philippe will never know how his callous treatment affected her life. Why should she have to bear the burden alone, when he was just as involved in creating that child?"

Giles opened his mouth to speak, but Annie held her hand up.

"However, I know you did not agree with sending her away, Mon…" Annie stopped and smiled when she saw one of his eyebrows raise. "Giles," she corrected herself. "I appreciate that you are not the only manager of the opera house. I only wish you could have done more to help her."

Giles looked for a moment as if he were going to say something, but then, he only nodded. "So you do forgive me?" he asked again.

"I can forgive you nothing," she responded. "I was not the one treated so harshly." When a look of dismay washed over Giles's features, Annie nodded, "But I do understand."

Giles sighed in relief. "Thank you, Antoinette," he responded. "I am grateful for your understanding. So grateful, in fact, that I am going to treat you to lunch."

Annie's eyes widened in surprise. "What? No," she shook her head vehemently. "No, that is not necessary."

"Please, Antoinette," Giles implored her. "I insist. There is a lovely outdoor café just down the street from here, and I am simply proposing we eat there together before my business carries me away. We can continue to enjoy this beautiful day for a short while longer, and we both need nourishment."

Annie looked at Giles's eyes begging her to agree. She did not want this man to assume more of their acquaintance than was intended, but in truth she did need to eat. Even if she were not very hungry, there might be a baby to consider—a beautiful child with thick black waves and glowing golden eyes that needed sustenance, even if she felt no need for it. "All right Giles," Annie relented, bringing a smile to his eyes. "But I shall be paying my own way."

With a sigh, Giles responded, "Suit yourself, Antoinette."

 **AN: Well, Charles now knows Erik's secret, and how proud he is of him! And Annie's thought are ever on Erik, but her friendship with Giles is definitely blossoming...**


	39. Chapter 39

CH 39

Erik was exhausted. It had been another long day of punishing physical exertion, and every muscle in his body cried out for mercy. The Palais Garnier had taken fourteen years to build, yet they were expected to complete the Monaco Opera House in only eight months. It required workers to labor in shifts—both during the day, and thanks to electric lighting, at night as well.

Erik often volunteered to work through both shifts, unable to sleep as he was, without his Annie beside him. But this night, he simply could not. Fatigue had blurred his vision and caused his thoughts to churn unanchored in his mind. Several times his hand had almost slipped when wielding his hammer. Charles had insisted that Erik go back to his room and get the sleep he had been sorely lacking. Still, as he lay there alone on his cot, rest would not come.

He had just about given up any hopes of finding repose and had risen to reach for his violin, when he heard the soft rustle of paper being slipped beneath his door. Puzzled, Erik crept to the entryway to find an envelope lying on the floor. Kneeling down, he lifted the envelope in his hands and read the words, _Erik, this was delivered for you today-Charles_ scrawled on the back. Flipping the letter over, he saw his name written in very familiar script, and his tumultuous heart leapt for joy.

Tearing the envelope open, he read the words, _My Beloved Erik._

Erik lay back on his cot, and as he devoured the rest of the missive so laden with love, he suddenly felt peace. This was what he had been sorely missing. The work on the opera house had filled him with purpose. The ideas he shared with Charles Garnier and the knowledge he gleaned from their discussions had stimulated his mind. Yet, with simple words written from nearly a thousand kilometers away, Annie was able to calm his soul, lift his spirit, and make him remember, once again, why he was here.

 _Because he loved her._

Pressing Annie's letter close to his heart, Erik closed his eyes. In the merciful darkness that finally claimed him, he felt her in his arms.

 _"_ _You are truly mine now, you know," he murmured into to the white gossamer veil encasing the soft waves at the top of her head. The arm he circled around her waist held her tightly against him, his other hand clasping one of hers to his chest. They moved gently together in the dance as he whispered, "Forever."_

 _"_ _I was yours right from the start," she declared, lifting her head from where it had been perched against his strongly beating heart._

 _"_ _Ah, but now," he added, a crooked smile spreading on his unmasked face, "You are so, even in the eyes of the law."_

 _"_ _Yours are the only eyes that have ever mattered," she whispered, rising on her tiptoes to meet his lips with hers._

 _"_ _Are you certain you will be happy sharing your life with a lowly builder," he asked, the satin of her gown swishing on the ground as they swayed smoothly together, "when roses are strewn at your feet on the stage every night?"_

 _"_ _Erik Laramie," she scolded good-naturedly, her eyes shining with joy. "What use do I have for roses, when my husband's love is sweeter and more perfect than any bloom? It will not fade or decay with time, but simply grow stronger and more beautiful to behold. And when I touch my husband," she added, pressing her lips firmly to his chest through the thin fabric of his shirt, "I have no fear of thorns. For his touch brings only comfort…" she declared, trailing her fingers up to loosen his bow tie. "…Love," she added, scattering kisses down his now exposed throat. "…And more ecstasy than I ever dreamed possible."_

 _"_ _You understand, Annie," Erik told her, his eyelids heavy, a husky tone coloring his voice, "That I shall never let you go."_

 _"_ _As if I could ever yearn for escape," she ended her uttering on a moan, as he claimed her lips once more with his and bent his body to lift her up into his arms._

 _Carrying her to the furs once again arranged by the shore of the underground lake, Erik laid her down, resting his own weight upon her before he pulled his lips away from hers. He cradled her face in his hands as he whispered, "I love you, my beautiful bride—my wife, who I will honor and cherish forever." Placing fevered kisses all over her face, he vowed, "I promise, that as much as you are mine, I am yours do to with what you will."_

 _With tears in her eyes, she brought her own hand to his cheek and answered, "Then I shall love you, my husband. From now until the end of time."_

 _And lowering his lips to once again unite with hers, they went about claiming the pleasure that would now be theirs for eternity._

* * *

The dormitories at the Palais Garnier were dark, but in Annie's dream, the day was filled with sunshine. The smell of salt rose up with the sea breeze that twisted and tangled the long black waves that trailed loosely down her back. Erik holding her hand in his, they watched a little boy with curly black hair laughing as he ran along the sand, urging the gulls into flight. Tenderly, Erik reached over and drew her face to his, and she smiled as she tasted the sweetness of Erik's lips, and the comforting warmth of his arms wrapping around her.

Suddenly, Annie opened her eyes. A sharp cramp, low in her abdomen, had roused her from her slumber. It had since passed and Annie rolled over on her cot to try to regain the idyllic existence in which she had been living in her dream. But then it came again—an intense pang, accompanied by that all too familiar wetness that told her that her monthly cycle had begun.

"No," she whispered to herself in agony, as the vision of that sweet, laughing boy faded in her mind. "No, no, no!" She crawled out of the bed, and dragged herself to the lavatory where she confirmed her worst fear—she and Erik had not created a new life together after all. She was not pregnant. Annie was truly, completely alone.

In utter disgust, Annie made use of one of the sanitary products that were kept in a cabinet in the washroom. It was still the middle of the night, but the thought of returning to her room made Annie feel sick to her stomach. She suddenly felt like a caged animal, trapped in a place she did not want to be, and if she did not escape, she would go mad in her confinement.

Shoving open the lavatory door she stalked down the corridor. The door leading into the opera house was directly before her and she pushed through it, hurrying by the light spilling into the windows, to the one place in the entire world where she might not feel so dreadfully alone.

She arrived at Box 5 in a manner of moments, and hastily opened the door. The irony of seeking out this very box in the dark of night was not lost on Annie. The other dancers avoided it at all cost, since stories still circulated about how Box 5 was preferred by the ghost. A cynical sneer spread across Annie's face at the thought. She could wish for nothing more fervently, at that moment, than to be haunted by the Phantom that struck fear into the hearts of others.

Grasping the lantern that hung faithfully on the wall, and quickly lighting it, Annie turned and lifted her hand above the little mirror that hung on the opposite wall. She ran her fingers along the upper frame until she found the small protrusion that she knew would open another world. When the wall had given way before her, Annie wasted no time finding the heavy staircase at the end of the tunnel before her. Down, she descended, never paying mind to the darkness, or any danger that might have frightened away another girl. No, the abject emptiness that she felt at her core was far more terrifying than anything that might jump out at her in the dark, because she knew that this void was an enemy she had no hope of defeating.

Finally she reached the bottom of the staircase, and the mist that rose to embrace her was a stark reminder of the warm arms she was missing. Following the faint sound of moving water, she pressed onward until she turned that final corner and saw the lake. The furs were still spread out on the shore, the unlit candles standing sentinel exactly where they had left them when she had been here with Erik.

Feeling the ache in her chest intensify, every step was now an agony. With feet mired in sadness, Annie stumbled toward the frigid, swirling waters. When she had reached the very edge, Annie fell to her knees, unable to hold herself upright any longer.

"Erik," she cried, her voice ragged, tears she had not realized she'd been crying rolling hotly down her cheeks. "Oh, Erik," she sobbed, "I miss you."

She had been a fool, she realized, as her sorrow filled the lake—such a complete and utter fool. For two weeks she had convinced herself that she would be alright—that she was not completely alone—because she had Erik's child growing within her. Two weeks of dreaming what her life would be like once they were back together—of believing that the day would come very soon when they could be a family. All just fairy stories—fabrications to soothe her troubled mind.

"I am such a child, mother!" She spat in disgust. "Such a stupid, _stupid_ child to believe in happy endings. Things don't end happily for me, mother. I _lose_ the ones I love."

Annie bent forward as sobs wracked through her body, the pain of Erik's absence feeling as fresh as the day he departed. She was left once again wondering how she was going to manage much longer without him, when the misery after nearly a month was still so raw.

"You were wrong, Erik," she shouted to him, wishing he could somehow hear her across the miles. "I am not strong enough for this. I cannot live without you!"

 _This is not forever, Annie,_ she heard as a whisper in her heart.

 _Right. Not forever_ , she thought to herself as the agonizing pain began to settle into a melancholy calm. The only thing that could be forever was the constancy of their love for one another. And yet, though she knew that he loved her, he was still so far away.

Regaining some composure, Annie slowly straightened her back. Taking a deep breath, she looked around her, taking in the sights of the underground chamber. There, a little to her right, were the furs on which she and Erik had slept for years in their cave—the very same ones on which they had made love time and again on Erik's last night in Paris.

Suddenly, Annie was exhausted, her grief having drained every last bit of her energy. With great effort, she dragged herself to the furs, and lay down on them, still able to detect the slightest trace of Erik's scent. She wrapped the furs tightly around her, their softness bringing to mind the warmth of Erik's embrace. "Come back to me, my love," she whispered, taking in a deep breath. "I'm so alone without you." And with visions of their last night together filling her mind, Annie finally succumbed to sleep.

* * *

Charles Garnier was walking in the direction of the build site when Erik emerged from his room. Falling in step with his employer, Erik said, "Thank you, sir."

"Erik," Charles said, continuing on his path without looking in Erik's direction. "You must understand that even though _you_ may be deep into a conversation in your own thoughts, the rest of us mere humans have not quite managed to perfect the skill of reading your expeditious mind." Then, stopping to give Erik his undivided attention, he asked, "Thank me for what?

Despite his usual cold and serious outward demeanor toward almost anyone except Annie, Charles Garnier could always make Erik smile. With a chuckle he answered, "Thank you for bringing the letter to my room last night, sir. I greatly appreciated it."

With a sigh, Garnier resumed walking, saying, "With the Paris postmark, I figured it was from your lady love. I knew you'd want to see it immediately."

"I did, sir," Erik nodded.

"When are you going to stop calling me sir, Erik?" The man asked jovially.

"I apologize, sir…err, _Charles,"_ Erik paused to correct himself. "Force of habit."

"Well, force yourself to break the habit, son," Garnier said plainly, as he continued on his way.

Erik kept pace with Garnier a little further, quietly regarding the man who walked beside him. He was looking particularly drawn today, with dark circles beneath his eyes, the hollows under his cheeks more pronounced than usual. His scouring pad hair flew in all directions, and Erik got the distinct impression that the man had not slept.

It was hardly fair of Erik to take exception to a person's appearance—after all, he had been completely convinced for many years that he was in fact the monster everyone had told him he was. Still, Charles Garnier was someone Erik greatly admired, both for his mastery of the art of architecture and, more recently, for the kindness the man had shown him. He could not help but feel concern.

"Charles," Erik began, "When you slid the letter beneath my door last night, it was quite late."

"I didn't think I'd wake you," Garnier responded, "even though I did tell you to get some sleep."

"You know I don't take orders well," Erik smirked. "Still, I was wondering why _you_ were up so late. Please pardon my frankness…Charles…but you look tired."

Garnier stopped again and looked at Erik with narrowed eyes, his hands placed firmly on his hips. "I think I liked you better when you called me sir."

"It's just…are you alright?" Erik asked with true unease in his voice.

Shaking his head, Garnier looked to the ground, "I am just…preoccupied."

They walked the next few steps in silence, but when Garnier said no more, Erik was compelled to ask, "Is it the opera house? I thought construction was going according to schedule…"

"No, Erik," Garnier sighed. "The building is going just fine. It is…" The man stopped and heaved a great sigh, lifting his fingers to knead his forehead before continuing. "It is my son. He…is not well."

If Garnier had looked somewhat drawn before, he was downright ashen now. Erik could not help but feel sympathy growing in his heart for the man who had shown him such kindness. "I am sorry Charles," he said with all sincerity.

"Thank you, Erik," Garnier nodded, looking down. "He's got a very frail constitution—takes after his father, I'm afraid. I was also a very sickly child. Still," he added, looking up, a little hope entering his eyes. "Christian is a fighter! At seven years old, he has already outlived his brother Daniel who died when he was two." At the mention of his older son, a sadness filled Garnier's expression again. Looking off into the distance he added, "The milder climate here in Monaco is supposed to be better for him than Paris. And yet—he coughs…"

"That is why," Erik said quietly, regarding his boss's troubled face. "You are so often about late at night. You cannot sleep…"

"I cannot help but worry," Garnier admitted quickly. Having finally expressed his inner turmoil, he found that he could no longer keep it contained. "Louise has already lost so very much—our elder son Daniel, and another babe who died in the womb. She cannot lose Christian too. And I…" The man's voice trailed off, as he contemplating his own emotions about the possible loss of his only surviving child.

Erik gazed at this great man who had suffered so much, and he felt his heart clench with compassion once again. It struck him as ironic that, despite his disfigurement, he had always been as healthy as the proverbial ox as a child. Even though his mother loathed the sight of him, and often quite vocally wished he were dead, she had no hope of heaven taking him from her, no matter how fervently she prayed for it.

And yet here was a man who loved his son—as any true parent should. He wished nothing more than health for the boy, but the threat of death constantly lingered. He had already lost one son—how devastating must it be to live in fear of losing another. Erik had never known paternal love, but judging by the haunted look he had seen in Garnier's eyes, he could only imagine such a loss would lay waste to the good man's soul.

"It is only natural, sir," Erik said, trying to say something—anything—to soothe his employer's tormented heart, "that you would grieve the loss of your son as well. I only hope you shall never have the need."

Garnier finally turned and looked Erik in the eyes again. "Thank you, Erik," he nodded, swallowing hard. "I find your words to be a great comfort." The man inhaled a deep, steadying breath. "Now," he continued, his usual strength returning to his voice. "We should get going. The Opera House is not going to build itself, you know!" And patting Erik on the back, he set them once again on their way.

 **AN: Oh, poor Annie's hopes are dashed. No Meg yet. And Poor Garnier. Looks like he needs Erik's friendship as much as Erik needs his...**


	40. Chapter 40

CH 40

The days at the Opera House dragged on and on, and if it had appeared that Annie had thrown herself into her work before, she allowed herself to become consumed by it after discovering that she was not carrying Erik's child. She ate when it was required, so that she could keep up her physical strength, and she made an effort to get the sleep she needed at night. But beyond that, she existed only to dance. Performance and rehearsal filled her waking hours, and while Erik was away from Paris, Annie would have it no other way.

The only times she felt truly alive were when another of his letters would arrive for her at the post office. She would steal away to the underground lake to feel closer to her beloved as she read the sweet words written in his familiar scrawl. Suddenly, she could sense her heart resume its beating, and her lungs filling up with air. His words of love were a great comfort to her, and he never failed to expound upon how sorely he missed her, how greatly he wished he were back in her arms, and how deeply and desperately he loved her.

But there were other things he wrote about, and they did not escape her attention. He told her how accomplished he felt when the foundation had been completed and the opera walls began to go up. He related how the other workers were tolerant of him, judging him more by the level of his effort than the abnormality of his face. He marveled at how Charles Garnier himself had taken Erik's advice on several matters, including the method of hanging the chandelier. Erik wrote a great deal about Garnier, in fact. It was obvious that her beloved continued to hold the man—who apparently insisted on being called by his first name—in high esteem.

 _I have learned such a great deal from Charles, Annie. We have spoken at length about his plans for the opera house and his vast artistic vision. Every carving he includes has a meaning—every brick tells a story. The man possesses even more brilliance than I had first believed, being able to construct grand edifices that are both functional and rich in significance. He has taught me that, to be truly successful, a building must not only stand—it must_ breathe _. It is necessary for it to be an organic expression of an idea—then it is no longer simply architecture, Annie. It is art._

 _Working with Charles inspires me. I have been sketching again. He has seen some of my drawings, and encouraged me to expand upon them, adding in nuances and subtlety that might not even be noticed by the naked eye, but would do much to inform the subconscious. He is a great genius, Annie—a true intellectual when it comes to architecture._

 _And yet, he has been cursed with personal tragedy. His son is ill, Annie. He and his wife have made the move to the South permanently—in hopes of improving the boy's health. But they have already lost a child, and had another die in the womb. It is no wonder they live in constant fear for the boy they have left. Charles has shown me such kindness—such warmth. He even calls me 'son' at times—an honor that means much to me, knowing how ill his true child is. He carries such a heavy, unfair burden—one that I wish I could do more to lighten. I must admit that I worry for him…_

It saddened Annie to read about Charles Garnier's personal sorrow. She had lost both of her parents but she could not imagine the sadness of losing a child. It had been devastating enough for her to discover that she had never been pregnant with Erik's babe. But the pain must be unimaginable to find that one _was_ carrying a life only to lose it.

Still, it lifted her spirits to know that Erik was finding such fulfillment in his new job. She had nothing but gratitude in her heart for the way Charles Garnier had been treating him. Erik needed to see that there were other people who could appreciate his unique talents. He had so many gifts to offer the world—his aptitude for architecture was merely scratching the surface.

And yet, though she was so incredibly proud of Erik, she still missed him—and she wished, selfishly, that he were back with her in Paris. Her own job at the opera house should have been fulfilling. Instead, the applause they drew every night rang hollow when she remembered that Erik was not among the audience. It had been so long now, since she had seen his face that she could not be sure she was correctly conjuring his image in her memory. She was fairly certain the deformed side had left an impression she would never forget. But what of the other side—the one that had always reminded her so much of one of heaven's angels? Did those two little crinkles still appear at the corner of his eye when something amused him? Did his smile bring out that dimple in his cheek? She had spent so many hours—so many nights while he lay sleeping—simply staring at his face in wonder and love. How could she be so uncertain that she was recalling it faithfully when she closed her eyes?

But when she wrote Erik back, using the supplies she kept in the chamber by the lake, she kept her letters positive. _I'm proud of you Erik. I love you. I miss you._ She was careful not to mention the constant ache in her chest, and the dullness of the routine she kept day after day. The mark Erik had left on the opera house had faded now too—and tales of the ghost seemed exceedingly foolish to the same ballerinas who used to titter and whirl whenever they would hear a strange sound, or gasp in fright when something was discovered out of place. Even the controversy with the count's family had died down, and a younger ballerina, who Madame Delacroix was sure to keep on a very short leash, had replaced Giselle. Business at the opera house ran smoothly, almost effortlessly—which meant pale, and shallow, and empty for Annie without her Erik.

Eventually, Annie would gather herself, and make the long walk back up the stairs to Box 5. She'd found sanctuary beside the underground lake, but she knew there were rehearsals to attend, and costumes to have measured. The opera house was between seasons at the moment, and in a few weeks, they would be debuting an entirely new show. There were many preparations to be made.

"There you are, Antoinette!" she heard, as she was ambling toward the rehearsal room after one of her trips to the lake. Looking up, she saw Giles Giry hastening toward her. When he reached her, he stopped, with a smile on his face, "I've been looking for you."

"Why?" she asked, his usual frazzled demeanor bringing a small smirk to her face.

"Madame Delacroix wanted to speak to you, but she couldn't find you," he told her.

"Well, I was on a break." Annie informed him.

"Yes, but she is so accustomed to you working straight through your breaks," Giles answered, steering her back toward his office where Madame Delacroix was, apparently, waiting. "Besides, she wanted to speak to you without the other girls in attendance."

Once they were inside, Annie found that it was not just the ballet mistress who was waiting, but Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin as well.

"Oh, you found her," said Moncharmin a bit nervously.

"Well, of course, he found her," Richard responded, seeming a bit annoyed. "What did you think? That she had been spirited away by the _Opera Ghost_?"

"Well, we do seem to be losing an inordinate amount of ballerinas around here…" Moncharmin responded, a bit of color rising to his cheeks at Richard's exasperated question. "If there had been some man…"

Giles stepped defensively toward Annie, who's face had gone white, and gave his fellow managers a scowl, while Madame Delacroix cleared her throat loudly, barking a sharp "Gentlemen!"

Moncharmin and Richard quieted their banter, and Giles showed Annie to a seat, continuing to glare at his partners as he leaned coolly against the wall behind her. Madame Delacroix looked up toward Annie, barely able to disguise her irritation with the two bumbling managers.

"Mademoiselle Laramie," she began. "I am glad Monsieur Giry was able to find you. I had hoped we could talk before rehearsal officially resumed."

Annie's brows knit together in confusion. Had she done something wrong? Had her absences at the lake been noticed? Were they going to ask her to leave? Glancing in Giles' direction, she found him still glowering at Richard and Moncharmin, but when he caught her looking at him, his expression softened into a reassuring smile.

"Yes, Madame?" Annie responded, turning back toward her teacher. "What is it that you wish to discuss?"

"As you know," she said, tenting her fingers together on the desk in front of her. "Our premiere production opened to grand acclaim. Every aspect was lauded by the critics and audiences alike—except for one."

"Our lead dancer," Giles filled in, when Madame had paused for dramatic flair.

"That is correct," Madame agreed, slightly irritated that Giry had revealed her secret. "Roxanne never really grew into the role. That is why, for the new production, we were hoping that you would agree to take the lead."

Annie gazed upon the four faces gathered around her. "Madame," she said, haltingly. "I am flattered that you would offer me the lead. But, I don't understand. Why could you not simply tell me this in rehearsal?"

"Well, my dear, I cast you in the lead once before. Then my mind was changed for me," Madame stated, staring icily at Moncharmin and Richard. "I simply wanted to be certain my managers did not object."

Looking decidedly uncomfortable, Moncharmin cast his gaze down and loosened his ascot. In a gruff voice, Richard answered, "I have no objections to Mademoiselle Laramie dancing the lead." And then under his breath he muttered, "As long as she won't be wearing wooden shoes, like the other one must have been."

"I always thought Mademoiselle Laramie should be in the lead role," Giles added when it was his turn to give his opinion. "She is an excellent dancer," he added, smiling down at Annie once more.

"Can we be certain that there will be no more trouble from the ghost?" Moncharmin asked, a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead.

Giles narrowed his eyes at the older man and Richard clucked his tongue loudly, burying his head in his hands.

"Do you realize, Monsieur Moncharmin," Madame Delacroix began, her voice rising steadily with each word. "That you are the only one in the opera house who still believes we _have_ a ghost!"

"I sincerely doubt, Monsieur Moncharmin," Annie answered quietly, not outraged, but instead only saddened by the mention of the ghost. "That the ghost will be making any new appearances—certainly not on my account. Perhaps he has moved on to haunt a new opera house," she added, her eyes cast to the ground.

"Very well, then," the mollified manager declared, clearing his throat. "Mademoiselle Laramie will dance the lead."

Cheers from Madame, Richard and Giles made Annie look up. She felt Giles pat her back in congratulations, as he leaned forward and said to her, "I know you will do a wonderful job, Antoinette! And _this_ time, I demand at least one dance at the opening night ball."

Annie never noticed the others' raised eyebrows at Giles's used of her first name—or at his insistence that they spend time together at the ball. Instead, she looked over at the clock in the room. When she realized she still had a short time before rehearsals began, she rose from her seat and nodded her thanks to Madame and the managers. Then, turning to Giles, she said, "I must go write Erik!"

* * *

"Please, Erik," Charles said, looking up from the paper he was studying, and gesturing to the chair on the other side of his large wooden desk. "Sit down."

Erik had been in the midst of installing some trim around the stage when word came that Monsieur Garnier wished to see him in his office immediately. Feeling momentary dread, Erik handed off the job to one of his associates, and made his way directly to speak with his employer. Erik's curiosity peaked when he saw Charles look up and smile upon his entry. Surely that smile did not portend bad news—and if not bad news, why was Charles in such a hurry to see him?

Lowering himself to the cushioned seat, Erik asked, "You called for me, Charles?"

"Indeed, I did, Erik." Charles nodded. "I received this in the mail today," he added, handing over the paper he had been examining.

Erik took the fine parchment in his hand, only to find that it was a letter. The broad, flowing script indicated an aristocratic bearing, and Erik's eyes immediately fell to the signature on the bottom of the page.

"Charles," Erik said, his eyes growing wide. "This is from the Shah of Persia!"

"Indeed, it is!" the older man said with a twinkle in his eye. "Keep reading."

Erik quickly scanned the page. "…have heard of your mastery in architecture… invite you to compete…royal palace… Charles! He is inviting you to compete for the commission to build him a new palace!"

"I know that, Erik," Charles smiled with a nod.

"This is amazing!" Erik declared, his excitement getting the best of him. "I know you will win, and then you shall build him a palace such that Persia has never seen."

"That is where you're wrong, Erik," Charles corrected him. "I won't. _You_ will."

Erik stared blankly at the man who was both his employer and his friend. "E…e…excuse me? W _hat_ did you say?"

"I said, Erik," Charles repeated himself, "That _you_ will be the one to win the competition. And you will build the Shah's palace."

"I…" Erik said, shaking his head. "I don't understand, sir."

"Erik, I can't do it." Charles told him simply. "I cannot move my son again, and I fear to leave him when he is so frail."

For a moment, Erik was speechless. "Charles," he said, when he had regained his ability to speak. "Surely there are more qualified men then me. I have only recently joined your company. I do not have the experience for this. Or the reputation…"

"You will have my backing, which should be all the reputation you need," Charles interjected. "And yes, my other men have skills, Erik—and experience—that much is true. But you have ideas! This project does not need a mere carpenter at the helm. It needs a visionary. An innovator. And that, Erik, is you."

"There is something more you should know, Erik," Charles added, when Erik simply sat there, flabbergasted. "I…I am retiring. The opera house here in Monaco will be my last major project."

Erik's eyes widened, in an even greater expression of shock. "Retiring, sir?"

"Yes, Erik," Charles nodded, grimly. "It is time I focus on my family and my child's health. And I would like to know that I am leaving my business in good hands. That is why I am handing it over to you."

"To…to _me_ , sir?" Erik choked out the question with a little cough.

"Yes," he said again, "I have never worked, before, with anyone who thinks quite like you, Erik. You are the only one who could have discovered—unaided—the hidden tunnels beneath the opera house in Paris. You have added so much thought to the design here. You have such a natural understanding of artistic and architectural principles. That's why I wish to leave my company in your capable hands. Will you take it, son?"

Garnier looked at Erik expectantly, waiting for an answer he was not sure he could give. When he came to Monaco, his greatest hope was that he would not be turned away from a chance to earn some money and claim some experience. It was simply a means to the end of getting a job in Paris. Now, Garnier was not only ready to enter him into the competition to build the Palace in Persia, but he was laying the entire Garnier construction company at his feet. So much pedigree—so much renown—so much more than Erik had ever imagined. This was the chance of a lifetime—and the man who was offering it to him called him son.

What must it mean for Charles Garnier to call him son? Erik knew it was not merely a commentary on his age. There were other workers there who were just as young as he that Garnier had not labeled with the moniker. Erik knew it was an expression of regard, appreciation, perhaps…affection?

 _His true son was dying._

And yet Garnier used the word for him.

How could he say no to the man? How could he refuse a gift of such immeasurable worth, especially when given by a man who carried such a great burden?

 _But Annie…_

"Charles," Erik said, when he finally found his voice. "My fiancée—she is in Paris."

"And you will be too, Erik," Garnier insisted. "My company ran out of Paris for years. Certainly there is still a market for my name there. It is only for the immediate future that I must ask you to delay your return to your beautiful bride to be. I promise I shall apologize profusely at your wedding."

The thought of Annie meeting Charles at such a joyful occasion brought a smile to Erik's face. When Garnier saw the pleasant expression his young protégé wore, he added, "Just think, Erik. You go to Persia. Spend six months—maybe a year—building the shah a palace such as none has ever seen. And then you go back home to your beloved, having earned enough money to provide for her a life of luxury—at the helm of a successful business. What could possibly a better wedding present to her?"

Erik imagined the picture Charles painted—a bright future—a home in the country—Annie dressed in the richest of silks—when she wasn't on stage dancing in the finest ballet slippers money could buy. It was everything he'd ever dreamed for her. And though it was true that each breath he took without her was agony, surely he could tolerate that a short time longer, in order to provide for her the life she deserved. And if, in doing that, he could carry out Charles' wishes, then all the better yet!

"What do you say, Erik?" Charles asked again, when he saw his young friend look back up at him.

"I must write Annie," Erik answered. "And tell her I am going to Persia."

Garnier clapped his hands on the desk in joy. "That's my boy!" he cried, excitement in his voice. "You do me proud, Erik!"

"I only hope I never give you reason to say otherwise, sir," Erik said humbly.

"Oh nonsense!" Garnier declared with a wide wave of his hand. "That will never happen. Now!" he added, opening his drawer and pulling out several long sheets of paper. "Let's talk about the palace!" And pushing the papers in Erik's direction, the jovial man said, "What do you think of these plans?"

 **AN: I am almost afraid to ask what you think! Please don't hate me. He had to get there somehow...**


	41. Chapter 41

CH 41

Annie curtseyed as flowers were strewn on the stage in appreciation of the season's opening performance. The scads of people who filled the auditorium rose to their feet in appreciation of the regal spectacle they had just witnessed. When Annie was cued to come forward a bit to be acknowledged for her individual efforts, the applause was thunderous. Glancing up, she could see Giles Giry on his feet in the manager's box, cheering wildly, his face aglow with excitement. Though she told herself not to do it, Annie could not help but steal a glimpse of Box 5. The well-dressed gentlemen and their wives seated there were clapping along with everyone else, but the absence of a certain shadowy figure made a tiny ache bloom in her triumphant heart. Despite the victory of the evening, she could not help but wish that Erik could be there. It had only been two days prior, however, that Annie had received the news that Erik would not be coming home any time soon.

 _Six months, Annie,_ he had claimed in his letter _. Perhaps a year, and then I shall come back to you. I know that it seems an unbearably long time—and my own heart breaks with every second we are apart—but please read the rest of this letter. Do not ball it up and heave it into the trash until you have read, with your own two eyes, the reason for my delay—and the vow I make to you upon my return._

Despite the distance between them, Erik knew her exceedingly well. In fact, Annie had been very near to tearing the missive to shreds that she could sprinkle into the lake before seeing his admonition. With a clenched jaw, however, she continued to read. She could always destroy the troublesome epistle later.

 _When I return to you, Annie, it shall be as the head of the Garnier construction company. Charles has promised that he will transfer ownership of the company to me upon successful completion of the job in Persia. We would never again have to worry about my finding a job. Rather, I shall be in charge of hiring others!_

 _But the first thing I shall do when I step foot back in Paris is take you as my wife. Find yourself the finest wedding gown that Paris has to offer—and choose your faithful attendants. As the palace nears completion, my love, I shall send you word, and we shall be wed immediately upon my return—before I even lay my satchel down, if you wish. Then I shall build for us a home, in the country, Annie—a mansion befitting nobility, much like the one I was not deemed fit to work upon. We shall have all of our dreams, Annie. You shall have the life you deserve, and nothing—_ nothing _—shall ever part us again. I swear it._

Annie's first instinct, upon completion of the letter, was still to wad it up and throw it in the lake. "There you go again, Erik!" she shouted in the cavernous chamber as she paced back and forth to try to calm her anger. "Claiming _your_ dreams as mine! I never wanted a home in the countryside, and I never dreamed of a fancy wedding with an expensive dress and a line of attendants. What care do I have for bridesmaids? Why would I want a mansion? A cave in the woods felt like a castle when you were there to share it with me!"

Annie fell to her knees and let tears of frustration fall from her eyes. "All I ever wanted, Erik," she sobbed quietly, letting the lake absorb her sorrow, "was you—home and in my arms! You always strive to give me so much, when it is the simplest of things that would make me happy."

 _But what of his happiness,_ she heard the voice in her mind, and Annie was sure she could feel her mother's ghostly arms wrap around her shoulders in a comforting embrace. _He thinks he does this for you, but he needs to do this for himself—and for Charles, the man who calls him son._ And Annie knew in that moment—as she had known when Erik first came to her about leaving—that it was true. Erik needed to do this to prove to himself that he could. And further, he needed to do this in order to repay a debt to the man who had given him something even Annie never could.

Charles Garnier had treated Erik like a son. It was clear from his letters that Erik had come to think of Garnier as the father figure he had never known. The regard Erik held for the man was evident in every word he wrote, and though Annie was desperate, _ravenous_ , to see him again, she knew she had to support him in this one, final endeavor.

So, instead of crumpling the letter and disposing of it in frustration, she gently folded the parchment, smoothing out any creases that had formed, and placed it carefully back into its envelope. Then, taking a new sheet of paper, and lifting the pen, Annie felt a smile spread across her face as she wrote,

 _My Dearest Erik,_

 _I shall meet you at the railway station on the day of your return, bouquet in one hand, preacher's wrist gripped firmly in the other. You will not have time to unload your satchel—you will barely have a moment to disembark the locomotive before we shall say our vows. And then, Erik, you will immediately whisk me away to the lake beneath the opera house, where we will celebrate our marriage in the proper fashion—for days…perhaps weeks—before you even think about going back to work to build me a fancy house. Do you understand? After all, the personal architect of the Shah of Persia and owner of Garnier Construction Company can certainly find the time to take a well-deserved honeymoon with the bride who is so proud of him—and who has missed him terribly for far too long—can he not? …_

It was the memory of her cheeky response to Erik that brought a smile back to her face when she rose to clap for the other performers as curtain calls continued. Erik might not be here tonight, but within mere moments of his return to Paris, she intended to be his wife. She had no doubt in her mind that he would wholeheartedly agree to her plan!

When the stage lights finally dimmed, Annie hurried back to her dressing room. Unlike her debut performance, there would not be any escaping the gala festivities this evening. Giles Giry had made it clear that he expected to dance with her at the reception, so she really had to change and make herself ready for the ball.

She donned the midnight blue ball gown with black lace trim that she'd chosen from the meager collection the opera house kept for performers who did not have their own finery. Clasping a black beaded choker at the nape of her neck, Annie checked that her hair looked presentable then left her dressing room to hasten to the grand foyer.

The space was teeming with opera patrons in their evening formal wear, sipping on champagne, and discussing with great poise and aplomb the lavish spectacle they had just witnessed in the auditorium. She spied Monsieur Richard conversing with the Count and Countess de Chagny on the far side of the room—their son Philippe with a buxom blonde on his arm. Bile rose in Annie's throat and she reached out to take a flute of bubbly liquid from one of the waiters when she heard someone clear his throat behind her.

"The champagne is for the honored guests and paying customers, Mademoiselle Laramie," Monsieur Moncharmin stated, shaking his head. "Not for the staff."

Annie barely had time to be offended before another male voice countered, "Nonsense!" Annie turned to see Giles Giry, resplendent in his white tie and black tailcoat, carrying two glasses of the sparkling drink. "Mademoiselle Laramie is a major reason for our triumph tonight, so I believe she greatly deserves to celebrate."

With a nervous chuckle, and a quick glance back to Annie, Moncharmin insisted, "Dancers have a reputation for becoming easily inebriated, Monsieur Giry, and making rather embarrassing scenes."

"Mademoiselle Laramie is not just any dancer," Giles insisted pleasantly, placing one of the delicate vessels into Annie's hand. "I do not believe inebriation was a part of her plan for the evening, having already stolen the show once tonight."

"Very well," Moncharmin huffed straightening his tie. "See to it that she is kept under control, Monsieur Giry! We do not need any unfortunate…incidents…with the count being here." And with a final warning glare, he stalked off, looking rather like a frazzled penguin as he did.

Giles and Annie could not help but snicker as they watched him waddle over to Monsieur Richard. "Did you hear that, Antoinette?" Giles asked, his eyes still on the fussy manager. "I have been charged with keeping you out of trouble for the evening."

"And just when I was about to cause a truly delicious scandal!" she replied, taking a sip of her drink.

"Oh?" Giles asked, turning his amused eyes toward her. "And what was this scandal to be?"

"I'll never tell," Annie joked, in truth not having the foggiest idea why she had said what she did.

"Well," Giles teased with a twinkle in his eye. "Then I suppose I shall have to keep you close. I believe the dance floor is the perfect place to keep you occupied, and make certain you cannot make good on your little threat." He quickly finished his drink and set it down on a small table next to them. Once Annie had done the same, he extended his arm for her to take as he led them out onto the dance floor.

"You must forgive Monsieur Moncharmin," Giles explained with a crooked smirk, placing his hand on her waist as they took their place among the other couples on the dance floor. "He has rather delicate nerves."

"I had gathered that," Annie snickered as they stepped in the elegant moves of the dance.

"He is always primarily concerned with pleasing the patrons, since it is his job to keep them happy. Still," Giry continued, as he spun Annie in a graceful circle. "One might think he could relax a bit, as our company now boasts the best singers _and_ dancers in all of France."

When Annie only smiled demurely, Giles added, "You were magnificent, Antoinette. You have brought the Garnier a great triumph."

Annie blushed, saying, "Thank you, Giles. I do appreciate your words of kindness. But we all know that most people were here for the singers, as they should be, since it is an opera house."

"Well, I believe the dancers truly made the show!" he countered, never missing a beat as the music sped up and the waltz turned to a livelier, more raucous tune.

Though it was customary to dance only one—perhaps two—songs with the same partner, Annie and Giles had gotten lost in the music, and by the time they realized that several songs had flown by, both were parched.

"Time for another drink, Antoinette?" Giles asked as he led her from the dance floor toward the much more subdued verandah for a bit of air.

"What would Monsieur Moncharmin say about you offering me alcohol?" Annie joked.

"Oh, I have no idea," Giles replied, swiping two flutes from a passing waiter. "I tend to ignore the things that come out of that fussbudget's mouth!"

With a laugh, Annie followed Giles through the glass doors that opened to the quiet patio. They walked directly to one of the stone benches overlooking the flowerbeds and Annie immediately leaned down to adjust the shoes on her feet.

"I must say, Antoinette," Giles commented, taking a sip of his drink. "You dance sublimely, both on and off the stage."

"I thank you, Giles," Annie said, removing the offending footwear and rubbing her foot. "You are not bad yourself! However, _I_ am not used to dancing in heels!"

"I never would have known!" Giles insisted. "You were the picture of beauty and grace out on that dance floor, Antoinette. I could not take my eyes off of you. I _still_ can't"

"Giles…" Annie began to laugh off Giles's flattery.

"Antoinette," he said, taking her hand in his to emphasize his sincerity. "I'm serious."

Annie looked at Giles— _truly_ looked at him. The heartfelt yearning in his eyes was impossible to ignore, and Annie was shocked that she had not seen it for what it was ages ago. Giles Giry had feelings for her! And as he leaned in closer to her, eyes closing and lips slightly parted, Annie knew he was about to make a big mistake.

"Giles, please stop," Annie beseeched him, putting her hand out to halt his advance.

Giles' eyes opened fully and he caught himself about to kiss the woman who had been enchanting him for months. "Antoinette, I am sorry," he apologized immediately, moving a few inches away from her. "I should not have tried to take such liberties without your blessing."

"No," she said, shakily, not meeting his eye. "You should not have."

Giles sighed heavily, running his fingers through his hair. "I apologize, I just…I got carried away, by your nearness and your beauty…but I did not behave in a gentlemanly manner. You deserve better, and you shall have it, from here on out." Taking her hand in his, Giles cleared his throat and straightened his stature as he said, "Antoinette Laramie, I officially ask permission to court you."

Annie looked at Giles, his eyes pleading with her to say yes, to accept his proposal of courtship, and she felt tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. He had been so kind to her from the moment they'd met, and now she would have to hurt him. "No, Giles," she said quietly, but firmly. "I cannot give you permission."

The hope in Giles's eyes faded away and was replaced by mortification. "I see…" he said, stammering for words, as his eyes darted wildly all around him, looking everywhere—anywhere—except at Annie. "I…"

"No, Giles," Annie said, sympathetically. "You cannot possibly understand. My heart is not my own to give. It belongs to another."

"Well then," he said, still looking rather humiliated. "Forgive my presumptuousness…"

"You could not have known," Annie insisted, nausea swirling around her stomach at the thought of offending this poor, dear man. "There is nothing to forgive."

"Well," Giles said, his smile not quite reaching to his eyes. "Thank you for the dance, Mademoiselle Laramie. It really was quite a pleasure." And with a final nod, he rose and walked back into the ball, leaving Annie alone and conflicted on the verandah.

"Oh Erik," she whispered into the night sky. "How I wish you were here."

* * *

Erik wished with all his heart that he were back home with Annie. This was the night she was making her debut as prima ballerina at Garnier's opera house in Paris. This was the night of which they had dreamed together for so long. Erik yearned to be there for her—cheering her on in the audience, and gathering her into his arms after the show, making love to her all night long to celebrate her victory on the stage. Instead, he was making his way to the Royal Palace of the Shah through a loud, crowded square, the oppressive heat making him feel as if he were suffocating. _It was for Annie_ , he told himself, as each step grew more and more difficult. _For their future._ _It was for Charles,_ his mind insisted, as he stopped to wipe the sweat from his brow. _For the man who called him son._

Mazandaran was a sea of activity and color that assaulted Erik's senses from every direction. Women in filmy jewel toned dresses seductively invited passersby to inspect the goods in their booths. Heavily bejeweled dancers moved to the heady strains of instruments that Erik had never heard before. The air was heavy with the aromas of incense and…other…sweet and pungent odors wafting from tents hung with richly woven tapestries. It was as if the gypsy fair had expanded to take over the entire city—and it put Erik on edge. There was something unmistakably dark in this city of baking sun and blinding colors, and despite the heat, Erik found himself wrapping his cloak more tightly around himself and pulling his fedora lower on his face to hide from the eyes that seemed to find him at every turn.

"There is really no need to wear that in the Shah's presence," the guard who had accompanied him from the docks informed him curtly, when he noticed Erik's odd behavior. "In fact, I would wholeheartedly advise against it."

Erik glanced over at the guard, who, despite addressing him directly, was still staring straight ahead. "Why would my clothing offend the shah?" Erik asked using the limited Persian he had gleaned from the books Charles had given him in the days before his voyage.

"I do not believe you would offend him, builder," the guard quipped, still staring straight ahead, using Erik's profession though he certainly knew his name. "But rather, you would delight him. The use of a cloak and hat in this punishing heat denotes fear…weakness. And there is nothing that excites the shah more than weakness. Nothing he revels in more greatly than fear. Be on guard."

Erik cast a sideways glance at the man who escorted him to the palace. The man continued to stare straight ahead, so that a casual observer might not even realize the guard had been talking to him. To all eyes, it would seem the stoic soldier—just a bit older than Erik himself—was simply performing his duty. And yet he had taken it upon himself to advise Erik to be on alert.

Erik stared a quiet moment longer as the two continued their approach to the palace in silence. Just before they had reached the gates, when the rest of the palace regiment came into view, he whispered "thank you."

Not acknowledging his words at all, the guard stood tall and regarded the others before him. "I present to you the architect sent by Charles Garnier to take part, in the building competition. He is to be given audience with the shah at once."

With a terse nod, the first guard turned on his heels and left the courtyard, just as two others approached Erik and bade him follow them on their way. With one furtive glance over his shoulder to discover that the first guard was now out of sight, Erik pressed forward into the palace.

His immediate reaction was to wonder why the shah needed a new palace at all. The marble floor gleamed with a rosy hue and to the point of his waist, the walls around him were painted with the most intricate designs and colors Erik had ever seen. Yet, as they rose higher, the marble seemed to melt away, as thousands if not millions of tiny mirrors gave the illusion that he was standing inside a glittering diamond. The throne was an elaborate carving of milky white marble, on a platform that seemed to be held aloft on the backs of sages. To the back of the platform was a winding staircase made of crystalline mirrors that seemed to shimmer in and out of view, depending on how the light hit them. Everything in the room seemed to defy gravity and there was an opulence here with which not even the Palais Garnier could compete. If the shah hoped to improve upon this luxury, Erik suddenly felt no hope that he could ever win the competition.

Deciding it would be best to heed the aloof guard's advice, in this disorienting hall of mirrors, Erik unfastened his cloak, folding it neatly over his arm, and took his hat in his hand. There he waited, accompanied by two members of the palace guard, for the shah to make his appearance.

"Ahhh," came a voice from above, and Erik lifted his gaze to see a figure, all in white seemingly perched in the ethereal nirvana created by the glistening mirrors. After a moment, the figure began to descend the staircase. "I see that the Frenchman's pup has arrived."

Erik felt his jaw clench at the demeaning way in which the shah addressed him. He knew exactly what the man was trying to do—having been bullied and intimidated to no end by the gypsies. Being certain to carry himself at his full height—which would be several inches taller than the shah if they were standing on the same level—Erik held his head high and said, "My name is Erik Laramie, and Charles Garnier has sent me to present to you our plans for your new palace."

"I know why he sent you," the shah informed him dismissively, taking his place on the large throne. He snapped his fingers, and immediately, two slave girls, showing far more skin than Erik was used to seeing even in the gypsy camp, appeared from a hidden passage beneath the dais with bowls of fruit and nuts. A sickly leer appeared on the ruler's face as he ran a finger down one girl's bare arm and made her quite visibly shiver. Taking a small orange from the bowl she offered, he tore into its flesh and took a sloppy bite, the juices running down his chin. Immediately the slave girl leaned forward and licked the sticky liquid off his chin as the shah closed his eyes and let his head fall back for her ministrations.

Erik found himself feeling slightly ill watching this wonton display, recalling his own temptation when the strawberry juices stained Annie's chin the night before he left for Monaco. It disgusted him to mentally link the two, and he heard himself clear his throat to get the lecherous ruler's attention.

"Oh, you're still here?" the shah spoke in a condescending tone, before his eyes once again snapped open. "I have no idea why. The invitation was for Charles Garnier—not his fledgling cur."

Refusing to be put off by the shah's intimidation techniques, Erik informed him, "Monsieur Garnier assisted me in developing these plans, and I assure you, there is nothing second rate about them. However," Erik said, with a shrug, "if you are, after all, satisfied with this…" he paused strategically to glance at the unmatched opulence around him. Forcing himself to keep an unimpressed expression, Erik continued, " _place_ …and have no need of our work, I shall not take up any more of your time. Good day, your highness." And with a nod, Erik turned to go, praying the whole time that his charade had worked.

He had almost made it to the door when he heard the shah command, "Let me see your plans."

"Are you certain?" Erik asked, turning on his heel to once again face the imposing man. "I wouldn't want to waste your time…"

"Guards," the shah said in a bored tone, and instantly the two men each took one of Erik's arms, holding him in place.

"Call off _your_ pups, your highness," Erik tossed the shah's own language back at him, a glint of satisfaction sparking in his own eyes. "How else can I retrieve my plans to show you?"

The sniveling smirk now completely gone from his face, the shah gave his guards a knowing glance, and they released Erik's arms at once, while still keeping close enough to apprehend him if there should be a need. Paying the men no mind, Erik continued to meet the shah's penetrating gaze with his own, and reached into his satchel to bring forth the blueprints he and Charles had drawn up before he left Monaco.

"May I approach the throne, _Highness_?" Erik asked, one eyebrow raised in a haughty expression.

"You may," the shah grudgingly permitted, as he leaned back against the cold marble chair.

Erik walked several steps forward until he was immediately in front of the royal dais. The shah once again snapped his fingers, and one of the slave girls—the one who had not luridly licked the juices off the revolting ruler's chin—came forward to receive the plans. Erik handed them over, barely sparing a glance in the scantily clad girl's direction, still pinning his gaze on the occupant of the throne.

The shah unrolled the papers and studied, with much discernment, the architectural drawings before him. "I find these plans," he said at long last, "to be quite interesting."

Erik made no reply except to nod. He had realized quickly that graciousness got him nowhere with the shah—for true to the guard's warning, the ruler delighted in weakness. No, maintaining a show of strength would be the only way to "handle" the shah, so Erik would be sure not to show his nerves, nor his excitement that the powerful man seemed to approve of the ideas he and Charles had produced.

"So interesting, in fact," the shah continued as he continued to peruse the drawings. "That they might be enough to win the competition—in which, by the way, I am the only judge."

Still Erik kept silent, sensing that there was something sharp hidden in the shah's praise.

"Of course, I must know all there is to know about the people who work for me," the shah added, his eyes still on the papers. "I must know, for example, that you are trustworthy."

"Charles Garnier vouches for my character," Erik finally snapped. "Is his word not good enough?"

"Why do you wear the mask, boy?" The shah suddenly pinned his eyes on Erik, throwing him off guard.

"My face," Erik answered reflexively moving back a step. "It is deformed."

"Are you sure, boy?" The shah continued his interrogation, leaning forward now, his eyes never leaving Erik's. "Is that all? Certainly ugliness would draw less attention than a stark white mask. Do you like the attention it brings, boy?" the shah asked his questions rapidly, as Erik began to shake his head. "Do you relish it when people stare?"

"N…no!" Erik stammered, still struggling to regain his composure after the swift shift in the shah's mood.

"Or perhaps you are a criminal." The shah continued in an unyielding tone of voice, pushing even further forward in his seat. "Is _that_ is why you hide your face—to conceal your misdeeds?"

"What?" Erik asked surprised at how quickly the shah had changed course in his questioning. "No…"

"Perhaps you do not wish for anyone to see the true ugliness _inside_ you." The shah was on his feet now, slowly moving toward the edge of the dais. "Not your face—no—but your animus, your ruwān _,_ your _soul_."

"No, that's not…" Erik continued to shake his head, images of a night long forgotten beginning to swirl in his mind.

"That's it, isn't it?" The shah smirked as he grasped on to the discomfort that was now burning in Erik's eyes. "You _have_ killed. You are a murderer, Erik," the shah declared, drawing out the accusing word, now masterfully using Erik's name to tie him personally to the heinous deed.

"No," Erik insisted, his breath coming more rapidly. "I am no murderer!"

"But of course you are," the shah purred, knowing by Erik's outward reaction that he had hit his mark. "I saw it when I first looked upon you. You are a predator, Erik. A hunter."

"No," Erik's heart beat harder as he felt the old wood of the farmhouse door bow with his efforts but the lock holding fast against his ramming shoulder.

"Did you revel in the struggle, Erik?" the shah inquired in a slithery voice. "Luxuriate in the bubbling gurgles of your victim's last breaths?"

"No!" Erik said a little louder, as he covered his ears against the memory of Annie's resounding screams for help.

"Do you wish to kill again, Erik?" the shah continued to press. "To feel life fade at your fingertips?"

 _I wish he weren't dead, Annie,_ his own words thrummed through his mind _. Because every night, when I hear you scream, I want to kill him all over again._

"She was _innocent_!" Erik bellowed, falling to his knees, the shah's interrogation finally breaking him. "She was innocent," he repeated more quietly.

"And you killed her?" the shah asked, practically salivating at Erik's confession.

"No," Erik declared firmly, shaking his head back and forth. "I _saved_ her. _He_ was attacking her," he added, his eyes taking on a haunted expression as he saw Annie's stepfather once again rutting against her. "—He meant to violate her. And I…I…"

"Yes, yes," the shah hurried him along, the man's brown eyes practically glowing red with his desire to hear the rest of Erik's story. "Go on."

"I…" Erik stammered, the events of that long ago, horrible night replaying again in his mind. "I snapped his neck."

Erik was too worn down, too spent, to see the shah's eyes brighten with glee. "So you _are_ a murderer, Erik," the shah hummed contentedly.

Suddenly Erik realized what the shah had said and his head snapped up in awareness of what had just happened. Erik rose to his feet, his eyes glinting with the steel of his renewed resolve, and growled, "I am _no_ murderer." And squaring his shoulders, he added, "and I am no lapdog here for your amusement. Find another wretch to entertain your sick pleasures." And Erik turned to leave the room.

"Guards," the shah commanded in a booming voice, and once again, Erik felt strong arms holding him in place. "Show Master Laramie to his room. He shall be my honored guest. After all, he is the new palace architect!"

Erik glared at the man as words that should have filled his heart with joy seized his soul with dread.

"I have such grand plans for you," the shah said, a chilling laugh bursting forth from his lips. " _Erik._ " And with a final cackle, he turned and ascended the staircase of shimmering glass.

 _Oh Annie_ , Erik wondered, as he watched the man go. _What have I gotten myself into?_

 **AN: Oh Erik...welcome to Persia! And poor Giles-shot down mercilessly! So awkward!**


	42. Chapter 42

CH 42

Erik raked his fingers through his hair as he paced back and forth on the richly patterned rug beneath his feet. His room was lavishly furnished, no expense having been spared when appointing it with lush silks and luxuriant hardwoods and marbles. The focal point of the room was the enormous bed, draped in scarlet linens, and boasting four imposing posts resembling minarets of the richest mahogany. Complex geometric patterns had been painstakingly etched on the walls, with glittering gold leaf emphasizing the intricacy of the lines. Despite the opulence of the space, however, Erik judged it little more than a prison, for he knew that even though he fervently wished it, he was not free to leave.

He required Annie. He desperately needed to feel the velvety warmth of her hand on his skin to convince him that he could stop trembling. He yearned for the mellifluous music of her voice, urging him to be calm, assuring him that all would be well. He would complete the palace. He would earn his reward. And then he would return to Paris, where they would finally be man and wife. He ached for the whisper of her lips upon his, the heat that they would generate to warm his fear-frozen heart. Only Annie would be a sufficient antidote for the sick feeling that had lodged in his gut ever since his audience with the shah. Only Annie could soothe his soul. But she was so far away.

With a groan, Erik finally sat himself at the commanding writing desk opposite the bed. Impatiently, he rifled through the drawers until he found what he was looking for. Lifting out several sheets of parchment, he laid them flat on the polished wood surface and dipped his pen into the ink well.

 _My Dearest Annie,_

 _I believe I have made a terrible mistake. . ._

Erik stopped writing and wasted no time tearing the sheet of paper into shreds—which he then shoved deep into his trouser pocket. He could not write his beloved a letter in which he told her that he had misgivings about the shah! Firstly, the letter would probably never leave the palace without the unscrupulous ruler reading it word for word. Secondly, he could not worry his love over this. What could she possibly do about his concerns? She was all the way in Paris! And yet, knowing Annie, the impossibility of her being effective would not stop her from trying. He could almost see her concocting some sort of crazy plan of coming to Persia and dragging him home—whether the shah liked it or not.

The thought of Annie stepping one foot inside a land that so obviously demeaned their women and treated them as little more than playthings for men in power made the nausea in his stomach grow. No, he didn't want Annie anywhere near Persia—and, in much the same way he had felt about Yusef—he didn't want the shah to even know Annie existed. He would have to find some method of slipping away from the palace and making his way into town. Only then would be able to get word to Annie. For now, it was just not safe.

A loud rapping sounded on the door to Erik's room, and it immediately opened to reveal the guard—the one who had escorted him to the palace—standing outside.

"The shah requires your presence," he informed Erik, his eyes looking straight ahead, careful not to make contact with Erik's.

"I do not wish to see him," Erik responded, mostly out of spite.

"That is of no consequence," the guard informed him, with a barely perceptible roll of his eyes. "The shah requires your presence. It is not an invitation. It is a command." The guard continued to stand in his doorway, unmoving, always staring straight ahead at the wall.

"Why will you not look in my direction?" Erik asked him, his curiosity piqued. "Is it considered polite here in Persia not to look the shah's honored guests in the eye when addressing them?"

"I choose not to look you in the eye," the guard answered his question, a slight hint of exasperation entering his tone, "because it is easier this way."

"Easier?" Erik pressed, his eyes narrowing in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Easier," the guard responded matter-of-factly, "in the event that I am charged with removing your head from your shoulders when the honor of your presence fades—which might happen sooner than anticipated if you keep the shah waiting."

Erik's heart stopped momentarily at the absolutely unvarnished way in which the guard explained himself. "I see," Erik said quietly.

"Then, follow me," the guard answered, turning on his heel to make his way down the hall.

They did not go back to the throne room, but rather beyond the walls of the palace to a private grotto of sorts, hung heavily with flowering plants and fruit vines. At the center of the grotto was a crystalline pool, in which several slave girls appeared to be playfully bathing, their giggles and shrieks of laughter echoing in the enclosed space. The water was deep enough that they were covered up to their shoulders, but the piles of clothing beside the pool left no doubt that they were naked.

The shah was reclined on a chaise, which gave him an unobstructed view of the girls frolicking in pool. He was wearing a lightweight white robe, tied loosely at the waist, and the hungry look in his eye suggested that he too might decide, at any moment, to join the girls in the bath.

The guard who was leading Erik cleared his throat to get the lecherous man's attention.

"Ahh, Erik," the shah looked up from his ogling, a sickening smile spreading over his lips. "Kaveh, you may leave us."

With a curt nod, the guard turned to leave the grotto the same way they had come, but before he strode away, his eyes locked with Erik's. It was only for a fleeting second and no words were spoken, but the warning and admonition in Kaveh's gaze were unmistakable. Erik knew he had to be on his guard.

"So, Erik," the shah began in a saccharine voice that turned Erik's stomach, "Do you find your chamber to your liking?"

"It is…adequate…," Erik responded, trying to prevent his distaste for his surroundings from being seen. He maneuvered himself so that he stood directly in front of the shah, his back to the pool.

"If there is anything you require—even some," he paused, glancing over Erik's shoulder to the girls in the water again, "company—simply let one of the servants know," the shah continued. "The newest architect of the realm should lack for nothing."

Swallowing hard at the shah's vile suggestion, Erik responded, "Truthfully, what I would most require is leave to converse with Monsieur Garnier about how to proceed. I…"

"Nonsense, Erik!" The shah laughed with such power that the slave girls were temporarily startled from their water play, looking up to regard the ruler and his strange guest. "As you yourself said, Garnier made the decision to send you. Certainly he must have faith in your ability to handle this project yourself. Besides…" he added, his eyes beginning to narrow in calculation. "Plans have changed."

"Excuse me," Erik asked, cocking his head to the side. "But how have plans changed?"

"Well, after further examining your ideas for the palace, I find that there is something I desire even more greatly than a new residence. After all," the shah said, with a flourish of his hand to the space around him, "You yourself have deemed these accommodations…adequate."

Erik's jaw clenched as he heard his own word being thrown back at him, wondering what fresh hell he had heaped upon himself this time.

"No, I do believe this current palace—meager though it is—will suffice for a while longer. What I truly need now," the shah's eyes took on a depraved gleam, "is a torture chamber."

Erik took a step back, aghast.

"Careful, Erik," the shah chuckled to himself, as Erik was now standing precariously close to the pool. "You wouldn't want to fall in. Or would you?" he laughed harder now at Erik's uncomfortable predicament.

"I would not!" Erik snarled, stepping away from the edge. "And I cannot build you a torture chamber."

"Oh, but Erik," the shah smiled. "I think you can. The hidden chambers you included in the outline for the palace were utterly intriguing. And your use of mirrors. . ." the shah's eyes gleamed with delight. "After our audience in the throne room, I think you should well know how fond I am of the tricky pieces of glass."

"I did not mean I was incapable of building the structure," Erik spat, mentally kicking himself for having included the hidden tunnels. They had intrigued him so much at the opera house, he had been eager to try designing something similar. If he had known the type of man the Shah of Persia was… "On moral grounds, I simply will not build a torture chamber. That is disgusting, reprehensible…"

"And how else do you suggest I deal with the criminals who would taint my rule and question my authority with the corruption of their deeds?" The shah demanded.

"Do you not have courts in Persia?" Erik asked.

The shah let out another uproarious guffaw of laughter. "Oh, Erik," he asked. "Did I not tell you earlier that I was the only judge?"

"And did I not tell you earlier," Erik hissed, "That I was not a murderer?"

"I didn't ask you to murder anyone, Erik. I seek only to teach these hooligans and evildoers who threaten my realm a lesson. The people of Persia demand peace. In order to give it to them, I must rule with an iron fist, and make a very public display of punishing those who would thwart my rule."

Erik was well acquainted with methods of public punishment dispensed by men like the shah. A stinking, filthy cage; the hot crack of the whip; being forced to display his face…time and again he had suffered the indignities that the gypsy master thrust upon him. It had damaged him, broken him, leaving him a bitter and angry wretch, uncertain of anything but his own ugliness—until Annie had walked in one night and given him something to believe in.

He could not go back to the time before Annie had come into his life. Never again could he let that accursed darkness touch his soul. It did not matter that he would not be the one abused, or that he would only be building the chamber—not carrying out the tortures himself. It meant nothing that the chamber would only be used for criminals deserving of their punishments, and not on innocent young boys whose only crime had been being born too ugly for even a mother's love. He could not let that evil seep into him again and mar the person he had become since Annie had loved him. It was not the man he wanted to be for her—it was not the man he wanted to be for himself.

"Nevertheless," Erik said calmly now, and resolutely, belying the turmoil he was feeling in his soul. "I cannot build it. And since I cannot do that which you require of me, I intend to be on the next ship back to Monaco."

The shah regarded him intently for a long moment. "Very well," the ruler said at last. "But that ship will not be leaving until the morning, so I must insist you join us in the great hall for the feast tonight."

Erik nodded, saying nothing more. Tomorrow morning, he would be on his way to tell Charles of his failure, but there was nothing to be done about it. He could not do what the shah was asking.

"Faribah!" The shah called out, and Erik heard movement in the water behind him. In a moment, one of the bathing slave girls was standing beside him in front of the shah. She was completely naked, water dripping down her olive skin, her long black hair clinging to her back.

"Yes, Your Excellency?" she responded in a whispery voice.

"I hunger," he said simply.

Extending her arm out to pluck some fruits from the vine hanging well within the shah's own reach, the girl crawled onto the chaise, straddling the shah's lap. As she fed him, one by one, the fruits she had taken off the vine, the shah adjusted his robe.

"Erik," the shah called out, as he eyed the slave girl lustily. "Would you care to join me in my mid afternoon snack? I could get one of the other girls to bring you something to satisfy your appetite…"

Erik trained his eyes on the floor, unable to stomach the lascivious display before him. "I am not hungry."

"Well then, you can have Kaveh show you back to your quarters," he said, placing his large hands on the gentle curve of the girl's hips, "for I, myself, am ravenous."

Without a word, Erik turned and walked quickly to the grotto entrance, averting his eyes from the girls who remained in the pool, and desperately trying not to hear the rustling and heavy breathing coming from behind him.

* * *

 _My Dearest Erik,_

 _Tonight we opened our new production. It was met with great applause and appreciation from the audience. But it would have been far better if only you had been here. There was a grand ball after the performance, and this time I had no excuse not to go. I would have greatly preferred spending the evening wrapped in your arms instead of being insulted by Monsieur Moncharmin only to be defended by Giles Giry, and then, in turn, offending him when I could not return his affections._

For the fourth time in the past hour, Annie tore up the paper she had been writing on and threw the pieces into the lake. As much as she wanted to write to Erik and share her triumph on the stage, her mind kept coming back the incident with Giles—which was an incident she absolutely did not need to recount to Erik.

With a loud groan, Annie stood and paced back and forth, hands on her hips, cursing her inability to think. She had left the ball immediately after the embarrassing episode with Giles, running down to the lake so that she could think, but her mind was still so incredibly muddled. How on earth could she have missed the fact that Giles Giry had feelings for her? It seemed so clear to her now—his never ending support at the opera house; the shy little smiles that he seemed to save only for her; his eagerness to have her join him at the ball. When she thought of it now, she realized he had not even brought a companion with him to the opening night festivities. In his mind she was to be his companion—something he made abundantly clear when he tried to kiss her on the verandah.

Annie closed her eyes and shook her head as she remembered that fateful moment when he had closed his eyes and leaned in close, hoping to join his beautifully sculpted lips with hers. Giles Giry was a very handsome man—with a heart of gold and a smile that could easily light up a room. He was smart and successful to boot. Almost any woman in that opera house would be thrilled to receive his attention. In another world—one where she were single—even Annie might have welcomed the touch of his lips—sighing into his kiss as his perfectly elegant fingers tightened firmly around her hand.

But her world was filled with Erik, and because her love for him blinded her to any other man's charms, she had also been unable to see how her friendly manner toward Giles might have given him the wrong idea. She valued Giles greatly—as a friend. But there could never be another man for her as long as Erik walked this earth. Her heart had ceased to belong to her many years ago.

A sudden exhaustion washing over her, Annie began to make her way up the steps. It had been such a long night—filled with the exhilaration of the stage, the excitement of the ball, and the thorniness of her conversation with Giles. She could barely keep her eyes open as she closed the door to Box 5 and staggered down the abandoned hallways in direction of the dormitories. The party appeared to be over—the revelers gone—and she could think of nothing more than crawling into her bed and allowing the oblivion of sleep claim her mind for the remaining hours of the night.

"Umpfh!" she heard as she bumped straight into something warm and firm, yet pliant. A pair of hands gripped her upper arms as if to steady her so that she wouldn't fall. Annie lifted her eyes and looked into a pair of familiar blues that were penitent, and embarrassed—and oh so tired.

"Mademoiselle Laramie," she heard Giles say, a quiet unease in his tone. "I do apologize for being so clumsy."

"Monsieur Giry," Annie responded, her own eyes pinching in sadness. "Are we back to addressing each other by our last names."

"I thought it best, Mademoiselle," he nodded stiffly, a tight expression taking over his lips. "After all, we are in the opera house. Professionalism must rule the day."

"Giles," Annie said warmly, reaching out and covering his hand with hers. "I am truly so sorry."

She could see Giles's shoulders slump as the tension went out of him at the touch of her hand.

"You have no reason to apologize for not sharing my affections, Antoinette," he said in a barely audible whisper.

"You must understand," Annie told him, when she could be sure that he was listening. "It has nothing to do with you. You are handsome, and you are kind, and you make me laugh because you are oh so very silly, Giles Giry," she added with a chuckle, which earned her a roll of his blue eyes, as well as a slight smirk. "But as I told you, my heart belongs to another."

"I…had no idea," he told her truthfully. "If I had, I never would have been so forward."

"Of course you didn't know, Giles," Annie responded, "Because I never told you. I tend to be very quiet about my private life. But," and suddenly she felt that if she did not tell him about Erik, she would absolutely explode. "I met him when I was only twelve years old, and I am fairly certain he had secured my heart from that very first moment. He is warm and he is loving…he is a brilliant musician and composer and he sings like an angel. And he is a genius like none I have ever known. I could scarcely stop loving him any more than I could stop breathing. And we are to be married as soon as he returns."

"Married?" Giles asked, truly amazed to discover this information about the woman for whom he had pined for months. "Well then he is a very lucky man indeed."

"No," Annie shook her head. "Truly, I am the one who is lucky. I have wanted little more than to belong to him almost from the moment I first knew him. When he returns to Paris, I will finally have my dream come true."

Though it pained Giles that he was not the one about whom Annie spoke so passionately, there was a part of him that could not help being happy for her. "If I knew I was the object of your dreams, I would scarcely be able to keep myself away from Paris! Where is he, if I might ask, and when does he return?"

For a moment Annie paused, realizing that the man of whom she spoke so glowingly was the same man that Giles knew as her brother. Still she gathered her wits about her and answered, "He is overseas at the moment, working for the Shah of Persia."

"The Shah of Persia is a very powerful man!" Giles exclaimed, his eyes growing wide.

"Well," Annie swallowed hard, not liking the sudden sound of trepidation in Giles's voice. "He will not be there long. He simply needs to finish work on the shah's palace and then he will come home and we will be married."

"Well," Giles said, gathering his wits about him, after mention of the shah had left him quite unsettled. "I wish you both only the very best of luck in your marriage. I truly mean that, Antoinette," Giles added warmly. "I ask only that I might be invited to attend the blessed event—for I am certain that you will make a simply beautiful bride."

Annie smiled sweetly at Giles and whispered, "I shall personally add your name to the guest list."

They stood there smiling at one another for a few moments more, feeling a certain calm wash over both of them. Finally, Giles said, "It is late, Antoinette. Shall I walk you back to the dorms so that you can get some rest? We cannot have our leading dancer up all night. There is a performance tomorrow, you know."

"I should like that very much, Giles." Annie said sweetly, as they fell in step together on their way to the living quarters of the opera house.

"So," Giles asked her as they walked. "Does your fiancé find that he likes working for the Shah of Persia?"

"Actually," she answered, "I do not know. I have not heard from him since he began work on the new palace."

"A new palace?" Giles asked in surprise. "The palace at Mazanderan is thought to be one of the most magnificent places in the world! Why would your fiancé be building the shah a new one?"

"Because he can build it better…"

 **AN: Such confidence she has in her man! Of course, she has good reason...**

 **Lots happened in this chapter. Please let me know what you think!**


	43. Chapter 43

CH 43

"Remember that he preys on weakness," Kaveh said stealthily as he lead them in the direction of the great banquet hall. "If you show him any of your vulnerabilities, you are done for."

"Thank you for that comforting thought," Erik retorted, becoming quite weary of the cryptic warnings he had come to expect from the guard.

After Kaveh had escorted him back to his quarters, following the disturbing encounter in the grotto, Erik had found new garments laid out on his bed—probably set there by a servant woman who had come in to tend to the room. Though he had found nothing wrong with his own clothes, Erik changed into the lightweight black trousers and long, silk tunic, also made of black. He did not want to draw undue attention to himself by refusing what could only be seen as a gesture of hospitality. Surely one night of being gracious would not kill him. So he walked now toward the dining hall alongside Kaveh, knowing that this evening would be his last in this pernicious kingdom.

"I am simply speaking the truth." The guard leaned in slightly, to make certain his soft words were heard. "Feasts, such as this, are not truly occasions of rest and relaxation. Often great political undertakings are accomplished at these thinly veiled displays of power."

"Well, it is of no consequence to me," Erik commented with a wave of his hand. "I shall be leaving Persia on the first boat to Europe in the morning. The shah agreed this afternoon."

Kaveh halted in his progress and turned finally in Erik's direction.

"What is it now?" Erik huffed in annoyance, meeting the guard's troubled gaze.

"There is no boat leaving the seaport bound for Europe tomorrow morning." Kaveh said simply. "There is not another one scheduled for a week's time."

Erik's eyes widened somewhat in surprise as he looked at the guard for a moment more before saying, "You must be mistaken!" In a huff he continued on in the direction they had been walking.

"One of us certainly is…" Kaveh answered, as he followed after Erik, and silently fell into step with him once more.

They walked in quiet for some distance until Erik could no longer contain his irritation.

"Why do you warn me? Why do you speak to me at all? None of the other guards have bothered."

His eye trained straight ahead of him once more, Kaveh answered, "You are not from Mazandaran. You do not know Persian customs. You do not really know the shah. I would not want to see you fall prey to his manipulations."

"But you're right." Erik said rolling his eyes in exasperation. "I am a stranger here. I mean nothing to you. Why is my welfare any concern of yours?"

"Because there was a time," Kaveh answered with haunted eyes, "When I too was a young man who knew nothing."

Erik's eyes narrowed at the strange statement, and he looked at the guard expectantly. Kaveh's lips stayed closed, however, and he said no more on that or any other subject. But his jaw remained set and his eyes continued to cloud over with the ghosts of painful memories, causing a chill to run down Erik's back.

The banquet was already underway when they reached the grand hall, which was as opulent as one would expect in a palace such as this. Scads of revelers sipped on sweet wine and partook of the perfectly ripe fruits that were mounded on trays adorning the long, heavy dining tables. The tables were perched atop a raised dais that ran the perimeter of the room, the diners being seated only on the side that faced a wide pit in the center of the space, meant for entertainment. Currently, a quartet of court musicians was in the pit, playing instruments whose names Erik did not know, but which resembled flutes, and lutes and drums.

The shah was seated at an even more upraised section of the dais, a bevy of slave girls attending his every need—pouring his wine, filling his plate with fruits, generally hovering around to make certain he wanted for nothing. Erik was disgusted by the display, but reminded himself that despite what Kaveh said, tomorrow morning this would all be a bad memory. That was when he noticed that there was an empty seat just to the right of where the shah sat, and he glanced over at the guard in horror.

Erik was sure he detected the slightest of smirks when Kaveh nodded and explained, "You are one of His Highness's special guests for the evening. You will dine with him in a place of honor."

Erik muttered, "I have just lost my appetite."

"No matter," Kaveh retorted. "He has demanded your presence at the feast. You must oblige." The guard moved on toward the Shah's table and Erik followed grudgingly, reminding himself once again that after this night, he would be out of the revolting man's presence forever.

"Good evening, Erik!" the shah said, with a welcoming smile on his face, once Kaveh and Erik arrived at his table. "I see you have changed into more appropriate dinner attire," he commented gesturing to Erik's new Persian clothing. "The dark color suits you."

Considering that his mood was also rather dark at the moment, Erik agreed that the black garments were very fitting. "Thank you, Your Highness," he nodded.

"Be seated," he said, gesturing to the cushioned dining chair at his right. "Enjoy the delights our kingdom has to offer you. You may just change your mind about leaving in the morning."

At the Shah's mention of Erik's impending departure, the young architect gave Kaveh a smug glance, before responding, "Oh, I doubt that very much, Your Highness." He might have said more, but his speech was halted when the heel of Kaveh's shoe sharply pressed down his foot.

"We shall see," was the shah's only response, as Erik crossed to take his seat, shooting Kaveh an irritated glare. The guard simply narrowed his eyes at Erik, as if to warn him to be on his best behavior, before turning to go.

"Jaleh," the shah summoned, and a young slave girl, draped in bright blue and pink silks instantly appeared, with a golden pitcher in her hand.

"Yes, Your Majesty," she responded.

"Pour our guest some wine," he waved his hand toward Erik's goblet and the slave girl complied, carefully pouring the red liquid into Erik's glass, giving him a seductive smile before stepping away.

One more night, Erik, he reminded himself, as he reached to the fruit tray for a strawberry. One more night.

"You have arrived at just the right time," the shah told him, just as the musicians were finishing up their set to a round of meager applause. "We are just about to serve the meat, and then the real entertainment will begin."

Erik had been trying to focus on the music to calm his nerves, and was sorry to see them exiting the pit. "What is the real entertainment?" Erik asked as he watched them go.

"Oh you will see!" the shah said with a smirk. "I daresay you will not be able to turn your eyes away. But first," he took his own glass in hand, sloshing out a few drops of the red liquid onto the polished wood of the table, "a toast."

The shah stood in a flourish and raised his glass high into the air. "Salam ati," he shouted, and swallowed down the contents of his glass.

"Salam ati!" shouted the crowd in return, as they all lifted their vessels and began to drink.

Reluctantly, Erik raised his goblet and swallowed down a few sips of the wine It was rich and sweet with a flavor far stronger than anything Erik would normally drink. But knowing it would be an insult if he did not finish the libation, he forced down the rest of it. Almost instantaneously, Jaleh was back to refill his glass with another smile that turned Erik's stomach. Or perhaps it was the wine?

Once the guests had finished their toast, doors opened at several points in the banquet hall and young men carried in trays heavy laden with roasted meats and immediately began piling plates high with the feast's main course. This, of course, brought even louder shouts of good cheer from those in the hall. Jaleh returned to Erik, yet again, with a platter of what appeared to be enough roasted lamb to feed an army. She set it down in front of him, and before he could put a meager serving on his plate, she once again disappeared from view.

"The entire platter is yours, Erik!" the shah informed him with a laugh. "We mean to feast tonight—not pick away at our dinner like birds."

With a heavy sigh Erik cut a small amount of the meat, which was heavily spiced in a way he had not tasted before. Instantly, he reached for the cup of wine and swallowed down a few more mouthfuls of the saccharine liquid, which washed away the taste of the meat, but did nothing for the dryness that had lodged in his throat. Erik was parched, and it seemed the more he drank of the sweetened wine, the thirstier he grew. Jaleh reappeared to fill his goblet, but when he tried to ask her for some other drink—even simple water—she simply smiled that maddening smile at him, and slipped back into the shadows.

Erik felt sweat forming on his brow, and a dull ache was beginning to bloom behind his eyes. He was just about to turn to the shah and tell him he had to go when a hush fell over the hall and all eyes were directed toward the center of the room. The next round of entertainment was about to begin.

The musicians were back in the pit, but they were joined, this time, by a female, who was, currently, hunched forward somewhat and hidden from view by a long shawl that she held wrapped around her. With a crash of the tambourine, the female began to slowly peel the shawl away to reveal herself to the crowd. She was dressed in a long white diaphanous skirt, with high slits on each side, jeweled chains spilling over her hips. A thin bejeweled brassiere was all she wore above the waist, aside from the glittering headdress that lay over her obsidian hair.

When the shawl was fully pulled away she lifted her head to lock eyes with the shah, and Erik noticed that it was the very same slave girl that he had seen with the ruler in the grotto. She waited a long moment for the shah to give his approval, and when at last he nodded his head, she began to dance.

Erik watched as her scantily clad body rolled and swayed to the music's growing intensity. He felt his head pounding harder and his breath coming to him in short gasps, as, in his mind, he saw visions of Annie performing the same type of dance only for him. Side to side she would swing her beautiful hips, as her arms reached out toward him, beckoning him to come nearer, closer. Obediently, he would lean forward in his chair, only to have her slowly arch herself backwards, rhythmically jutting her pelvis out toward him, her long hair trailing behind her almost to the floor. All at once, she would bring her upper body forward, her onyx waves cascading over her face as she swung her head toward him, fire burning in her eyes.

At that point, Erik would no longer be able to control his blazing desire, and he would grasp her hands and pull her onto his lap, where she would straddle him as she continued her dance. Finally freeing his arousal from his trousers, he would plunge deeply into her and they would both twist and sway to the surging rhythm and the swell of the song until they were both sweat covered and crying out in ecstasy. Oh, Annie, it has been too long!

The sound of thunderous shouts and cheers brought Erik back to the present moment. His throat felt like sandpaper and the pounding in his head was impairing his vision, but he could see the hazy image of the slave girl, on her knees, chest resting on her thighs, arms and hair splayed out on the floor in front of her.

When the sound of the applause finally died down, the shah stood and exclaimed, "Faribah danced well tonight, did she not?"

The slave girl looked up and beamed at the ruler's words, the crowd again responding with loud cheers and whistles, and Erik felt as if daggers were going through his head. Mercifully, the shah raised his hand for silence, before he continued.

"But Faribah has not always been pleasing to the shah!"

Revelers could be seen looking to one another in confusion, but none looked so puzzled as Faribah herself whose proud smile was transforming into a look of bewilderment.

"Just this afternoon, in my private grotto, Faribah allowed a male guest of the court to see her fully naked body!"

Faribah stared at the shah, stricken. Gasps of surprise and scandalized cries of outrage filled the room. Erik could not believe what he was hearing. The shah had commanded Faribah to come to him. She had only been following his direct orders.

"For this crime of wantonness…"

"Crime?" Erik interjected in shock.

"…She must be punished!" the shah finished his statement never missing a beat, and cheers from the crowd rose up once more.

"You cannot be serious, Your Highness," Erik said, rising to his feet but immediately falling back into his seat. His head was swimming and suddenly it seemed as if there was a bevy of slave girls in the pit instead of only the one, who was cowering under the ire of the crowd who had just moments ago cheered her triumph.

Suddenly two guards appeared, one on either side of her, and they pulled her to her feet. She struggled and tried to get away from them, but their grips were too strong.

"Faribah," the shah called in a booming voice, "Since you committed the crime of public wantonness, you are hereby sentenced to public degradation and humiliation."

"NO!" the slave girl screamed.

"Have mercy!" Erik implored.

"To be carried out," the shah added, "now."

A door opened in the pit, and a large, heavily muscled man entered, wearing nothing but a loose pair of trousers. When Faribah saw him, her eyes grew wide with fear and again she screamed, but this time a harsh blow to her mouth cut off her cries of terror. As the crowd jeered, the man came forward and tore the brassiere off of Faribah's body. With another harsh pull, her skirt was rent in two. The girl tried to cover over her naked body, but the guards still held her arms. As they pushed her down to the ground, tears streaked down her face and she shook her head back and forth begging "Please, don't do this. Please."

The man only reached for the front of his trousers, obviously ready to carry out her sentence.

Erik rammed his eyes shut and covered his ears with his hands as a sharp pain shot through his head like an arrow loosed from a bow. All he could hear were soft, pleading sobs, and all he could see was a big, hulking body forcing itself on a young girl as he pounded, helplessly, on the other side of a farmhouse door. "She is innocent," he whimpered as the pain in his head intensified with Annie's sobs. He had to get to her. He had to save her. "She is innocent!" he shouted, as finally the door gave way.

He pushed over the table and threw himself down into the pit, as the girl's tormentor turned with a start to Erik swooping down upon him. Defensively, the man extended his arms to fend off the attack, knocking the white mask loose in the process, but Erik's rage gave him the advantage. He curled an arm around the man's neck and placing his other palm on the attacker's head, twisted hard to the side. When he heard that sickly snap, Erik knew she was safe. His Annie was safe. No one would ever hurt her again.

Erik fell to his knees under the weight of the attacker's corpse. He was exhausted and his head was still pounding, but bit-by-bit his surroundings were becoming clearer to him. He was not on the farmhouse floor in the South of France, and the corpse laying before him was not Annie's stepfather—the young girl cowering in the corner, naked and half out of her mind with fear was not his precious Annie.

It was all coming back to him now, and the reality of what had just happened was enough to set his mind swimming once again. Slowly he raised his unmasked face to a chorus of screams and shrieks from the crowd. Disgusted faces looked at him from all around the banquet hall, pointing and shouting "Corpse!" "Demon!" but none of them mattered. Erik only sought one face, and when he found it, he knew that once again, he had been trapped.

The shah gazed down at him in wonder, his eyes burning with barely disguised glee. "Behold!" he shouted in a loud voice. "The girl's champion is The Angel of Death himself!" The crowd did not seem to know how to react to this new piece of information, but dread and horror beat down upon Erik as it dawned on him that it was true. He had killed again. And this time, it wasn't for Annie.

Suddenly Erik felt the two guards take him by the arms and pull him up from the ground, dragging him before the shah. Erik slumped in their grasp, because his muscles were suddenly too weak to carry his own weight. The shah appraised him thoroughly, from head to toe, paying special attention to his unmasked face, before throwing his head back in raucous laughter.

"You weren't lying, Erik," he said, between guffaws. "Your face is hideous! Like a demon straight out of hell! No wonder you cover it up." When the shah's laughter died down, he locked his eyes with Erik's as he added in a venomous whisper, "But even though you tried to hide it, I always knew you were a murderer."

Erik's head hung to his chest, and he felt hot tears begin to streak down his face. "Guards!" he heard the shah command, "Show our guest to his quarters. He needs to get a good night's sleep, for tomorrow he will begin working on a new project for me."

Erik did not raise his head again as the guards began to shuffle him toward his room. If he had, he might have noticed Kaveh watching the entire scene from the corner, and solemnly shaking his head.

 **AN: Oh, poor Erik. The shah truly did a number on him. :(**


	44. Chapter 44

**Hello readers,**

 **Its going ring to be a very busy few days for me-right through the weekend, so I thought I'd pot this now. Enjoy...**

CH 44

"Five, Six, Sev… Mademoiselle Laramie!" Madame Delacroix interrupted her count with the crack of her cane. This was the third time today she had caught Annie several beats behind the other dancers. "For the last time, focus!"

"Yes, Madame," came Annie's chastened reply, but when the ballet mistress resumed her count, it was no use. Annie simply could not keep her attention on the dance and was soon gracelessly dodging herself out of the line to keep from knocking into one of the other girls.

"Dancers, five minutes!" Madame exclaimed with a disgusted sigh to the relieved faces of the young ballerinas filling the room. "Don't go too far!" Then, crooking a finger in Annie's direction, she said, "Mademoiselle Laramie, you come with me!"

Madame led Annie to an unoccupied corner of the rehearsal room. When they were alone, the older woman wrapped her arms around her chest and demanded, "What is going on with you lately, Antoinette Laramie?"

"I…I am sorry, Madame." Annie said, looking down to her feet penitently. "I have been distracted."

"I'll say!" The older woman replied. "Your head has been in the clouds and your dancing is sloppy! This is not the type of behavior I would expect from our lead ballerina—nor from Clarice Joubert's daughter!"

"I know Madame," Annie nodded, chewing a bit on her lower lip. Her eyes still focused on the floor, she promised, "I will do better."

"See to it that you do!" the ballet mistress snapped. "There are always very important people in the audience and we must always impress." And then, softening her tone she added, "And I know you are more than capable of this."

"Thank you, Madame," Annie whispered, blinking back the tears of embarrassment that had suddenly pooled in her eyes.

Seeing how distressed her star pupil appeared, Madame said quietly, "Antoinette, is there anything you would like to discuss? Something is obviously troubling you."

"No, it's…" Annie responded immediately, wiping the back of her hand across her eyes. "It's nothing. I'm just tired, Ma'am."

Madame Delacroix appraised Annie silently for a moment before saying, "Why don't you take the afternoon off? Go rest and refresh yourself for tonight's performance. I do not want you to be tired when we have paying customers."

Annie gave her instructor a quick curtsey, "Yes, Madame."

Annie knew that trying to sleep would get her nowhere, as she hurried out of the rehearsal room in the direction of Box 5. She would simply lie there on her bed, tossing and turning violently, or alternatively staring at the ceiling—just as she had for the past several nights. There would be no rest until she heard from Erik.

It had been several weeks since his last letter—the one announcing that he would be going to work in Persia. He was set to have arrived there on the day that the second performance season had begun. Yet, she'd received nothing from him—not even a short note wishing her luck or telling her he had arrived.

She knew that he would be busy—with the shah to impress—and that he would not have much time for writing. Still, it was very unlike Erik to go this long without some sort of communication. Even when there had not been much new to tell her about the opera house in Monaco, Erik would fill pages just telling her how much he missed her and how very much he loved her. Surely he could manage a quick letter just to say he was thinking about her. Unless, of course, he had begun to forget…

"Antoinette!" she heard Giles's friendly voice calling to her, as he looked up from opening his office door. His face was ruddy, as if he had again just come in from outdoors, but the summer warmth gave him no need for his usual tan overcoat. "Shouldn't you be at practice?"

Damn! She thought to herself. All she wanted to do was go down to the lake where she could feel close to Erik and write one more letter that she had no idea where to send. She was developing quite a stack…

Smiling politely, she looked in his direction, and said, "Madame Delacroix gave me the afternoon off."

"Oh," he said, looking puzzled as he walked toward her. "That doesn't sound like Madame Delacroix."

She knew it would cause him to ask too many questions if she admitted that Madame had sent her back to her room to rest—especially since she was walking in the opposite direction of the dormitories. Instead, she just shrugged and said, "She was feeling generous? I suppose?"

"I suppose…" he nodded still a bit confused. He was closer to her now, however, and was quick to notice the look of worry in her eyes. "What is wrong?" he asked, his voice filling with alarm. "What has happened?"

Annie rolled her eyes and shook her head, saying, "Oh Giles, it is nothing…"

"Antoinette," he said in a soft, but firm voice, grasping her gently by the shoulders. "Talk to me."

When Annie looked up and saw the sincere care and concern in his eyes, she did the only thing she could. She started to cry.

"Antoinette!" he said in surprise as he quickly ushered her down the hall to his office. Once the door was closed to prying eyes, he guided her over to a cushioned chair, and knelt down in front of her. "Please," he urged, gently, taking her hands in his. "Tell me what's wrong."

Annie closed her eyes again, cursing her volatile emotions, but knowing that if there was anyone she could talk to about this, it was Giles. With a deep breath she said, "It's my fiancé. I haven't heard from him in weeks. Not since he arrived in Persia. What if…what if…" she sniffled but could not prevent a new burst of sobs from escaping her lips. "He has forgotten about me?"

"Antoinette," Giles said in a soothing voice, reaching into his breast pocket for a handkerchief. As he leaned forward to dry her tears, he assured her, "Take it from me. No man on earth would ever forget you."

Annie sniffed again, and opened her eyes. When she saw the tenderness in Giles's eyes, she realized that this perhaps was not the most appropriate conversation to be having with him. "Giles, forgive me," she said, clearing her throat and starting to stand. "I should not be putting you in this position."

"Nonsense, Antoinette!" Giles shook his head, gesturing for her to stay seated. "I know you are in love with another man. That does not stop me from caring about you." He inclined his head forward and gave her a pointed look before adding, "As your friend."

Annie took a deep breath and tried to calm her nerves. Giles Giry truly was the only friend she had here in Paris with Erik gone. And a friend was exactly what she needed right now. "It's just…it is not like him to go this long without writing to me. I know he's busy—he's in charge of building a new palace for the Shah of Persia, after all. But to not even have a minute to send me a letter—just to let me know he is all right? Or that he still…" Annie let her voice trail off when she realized she was about to call into question Erik's love for her. Regardless, however, Giles seemed to know her thoughts even without her speaking them.

"I am certain, Antoinette," he said, reaching out and squeezing her hands, "that his feelings for you remain the same. But Persia," he continued, in a deliberately relaxed voice, "can be a very trying place."

Annie noticed the measured calm in his tone and her nerves were immediately set on edge. "What do you mean?" she demanded.

"Oh, nothing really, I…" he said with a tense chuckle.

Annie narrowed her eyes and tilted her head to the side. "Don't you dare 'nothing' me, Giles Giry! I know you meant something by that remark!"

Still trying to remain levelheaded Giles said, "Antoinette, I don't want to worry you…"

"Don't placate me then, Giles!" she said, rising all at once to a standing position—setting Giles off balance, so that he fell back onto his bottom. "I am already worried! I am making mistakes in the dance routine, and I cannot sleep at night! That is why Madame Delacroix dismissed me today—so that I could refresh myself for the evening performance. If you don't tell me what you know I will most likely go mad!"

"Alright, fine! Fine!" Giles responded, with a huff. "But will you please sit down and lower your voice? You're supposed to be resting, remember? Not haranguing your poor manager!"

"Friend, remember?" she snapped, but complied by sitting back down. "And friends do not leave friends in the dark."

"You've made your point!" Giles shot out in return, but taking a deep breath to regain his composure, Giles began. "I traveled to Persia last year, in the hopes of bringing the shah on as an investor for the opera house. His proclivity for entertainment is well known, and I thought he would be a likely candidate for associating his name with a brand new, state of the art facility in Paris. But when I arrived, I found him to be a very unpleasant man—somewhat… disturbing in nature."

"How do you mean?" Annie asked, hanging on his every word, biting her lip in concern.

"He was powerful to the extreme." Giles continued. "His attendants seemed genuinely afraid of disappointing him. And he made no secret of his wealth—showy with it to an almost perverse extent. He wished to make it crystal clear that he was in charge of everything and everyone within his realm, and that he could do whatever he wished with that which was his. Very quickly I realized that his association with the Garnier was not something I wanted to pursue. I did not want him to presume any hold over the opera house."

"He sounds disgusting!" Annie commented, shaking her head.

"My assessment exactly," Giles admitted. "And I have no doubt that if your fiancé is working for him, and staying at the palace, that the shah would read any letters he wished to send. Perhaps that is why he has not written to you?"

"Perhaps…" Annie allowed, standing up and beginning to pace the office floor, wringing her hands together. "Oh Giles, I do not like the idea of him being under the influence of such a revolting man. And I cannot even get word to him…"

"Well, I might be able to help you with that." Giles interjected, unable to bear how distraught she seemed.

Annie stopped her pacing and looked directly at her friend. "How?"

"Well," Giles said, rising to his feet and moving closer to her. "When I arrived in Mazandaran I was escorted to the palace by a young guard named Kaveh. He didn't say much, but he did warn me to be on my guard around the shah at all times. I cannot say for certain, but I got the distinct impression that he did not approve of his ruler. Perhaps if you were to write to him and ask him to deliver a letter to your beloved he would be willing to circumvent the shah and do so."

"Do you know how to get in touch with him?" she asked, her eyes suddenly shining in excitement.

"Yes, I do," Giles smiled, crossing over to his desk and opening a drawer. He took out a thin black leather bound book and began to leaf quickly through the pages. Eventually, he found what he was seeking. "Here it is! The Mazandaran Palace Guard. I had to exchange communications with them when I was planning my trip." Leaning on the wooden surface, he picked up a pen and copied the address onto a small piece of paper. Then turning, he handed the note to Annie. "Address the envelope to Kaveh Emandar and ask him to deliver it privately to your fiancé. I cannot promise he will do it, but it is worth a try."

"Oh, thank you, Giles!" Annie said, taking the paper from him and throwing her arms around his neck in gratitude.

Giles closed his eyes and took a moment to hug her back, inhaling deeply the perfume of her hair. But before he could get too attached to the intoxicating feeling of holding her in his arms, he pulled away. Taking a few steps back, he said, in a shaky voice, "You should go and write to your beloved." Forcing a smile to hide the affect her nearness was having on him, he added, "Perhaps you can still get a nap in before the performance tonight."

"I am going to do exactly that!" she smiled warmly as she moved toward the door. "Thank you again, Giles!" She scurried out of his office holding on to the paper for dear life.

Giles kept up his grin until she was gone, but as soon as she had closed the door behind her, he walked over to the decanter of single malt he kept on a side table. Pouring himself a measure of the Scotch, he swallowed the liquid down and collapsed into his chair. Leaning his elbows on his desk, he raked his fingers through his blond curls and tried to catch his breath. If one offhanded embrace could set his heart pounding as it had, how was he ever going to handle seeing her married to another man? Perhaps, he thought, it was time that he renewed his acquaintance with the lovely Lady Sophia.

* * *

 _My Beloved Erik_ , Annie wrote, by the light of the lantern, the water of the lake glistening green in its soft glow. Her hope had been renewed by her conversation with Giles, and there was so much she wanted to tell Erik—so much she wanted to say.

 _It has been far too long since our last communication. I have waited for a letter from you every day, and my heart was heavy when none would arrive. I am not proud to admit, my darling that I had begun to wonder if you had forgotten our love, and I hope you can forgive my insecurity. But I was recently told how difficult the shah could be, and I assume he has something to do with your inability to write. As luck would have it, I was presented with a way to write to you, and I wasted no time in doing so._

 _Actually, I have many letters waiting here, Erik, sitting in a pile at the edge of lake. I come down to the underground chamber often, to feel closer to you, and I write to you every day. Sometimes, if I close my eyes, I can imagine that you are here, lying beside me on the bedroll, and that I am whispering these words to you as we lazily succumb to slumber instead of scribing them in cold, unfeeling ink._

 _I miss you so much, my angel. I miss your smile. I miss the sound of your voice. I miss the soft strains of your violin playing a sweet melody you wrote just for me. I long to see mischief lighting your eyes, and I cannot believe this is true, but I even yearn to hear you tell me once again how 'little' I am! I would, undoubtedly, deny it mostly because of the thrill I feel when you sweep me up in your strong arms and lift me high off the ground to prove your point. Of course, I would then playfully chastise you, insisting that you let me down at once. Both of us giggling, you'd gently slide me down the length of your body, and when our faces were close, you'd kiss me and make me feel as if I were walking on air, even with my feet planted firmly on the ground._

 _Oh, Erik, how I miss you. My heart beats only for you every minute of the night and day, and I ache to be enveloped in your arms again. I sit here in the underground chamber remembering the way your hands warmed every inch of my body, searing me with heat of your desire. I yearn to feel that passion again, Erik. I long to feel your fingers trailing down the curve of my breasts, my waist, my hips. I thirst for the sweet intoxication of your lips joined with mine. I burn for that exquisite pleasure when you unite our bodies making us one that we might together ride out the waves of ecstasy. The sounds that spill from your mouth in that moment of completion fill my soul and fortify my spirit. Oh, Erik, I am desperate to have you back in my arms. I love you. You are everything I need in this life to be happy—and without you, I have nothing._

 _So please hurry to complete your work in Persia then come home to me. Make me your wife. Make love to me. And make me a promise that we will never ever be parted again, for I truly could not bear it._

 _Forever yours,_

 _Annie_

Taking a deep breath to try and cool her ardor, Annie folded the paper to place it in the envelope. On the reverse side of the sheet, she scrawled Erik, in big curving letters.

On a separate sheet, she wrote,

Monsieur Emandar,

I was given your name by a friend who traveled to Persia just last year and was pleased to make your acquaintance. My fiancé, Erik, is currently working there to build the shah a new palace. I implore you to please deliver this letter to him in private. It is not for the shah's eyes.

Thank you in advance, kind sir.

Sincerely,

Antoinette Laramie

Annie folded this sheet over the letter to Erik and placed them both inside an envelope. She sealed it, before turning it over and carefully copying the address Giles had given her, making certain that the name read Kaveh Emandar.

With a smile, she tucked the envelope into her skirt pocket and began to make her way up the stairs.


	45. Chapter 45

**AN: Back from a very exciting weekend getaway! :) And now it's time for the story to continue...**

CH 45

The heat was stifling, and Erik's head tossed restlessly back and forth on his pillow, the silk sheets pooling by his bare legs. It was impossible to sleep in this accursed furnace, and he was just about to rise and pour himself a glass of Arak when he noticed the sheer crimson curtains at the foot of his bed rustling before being pulled apart. She was back.

Once again, the temptress with the red rose tucked into her flowing raven tresses and the fathomless dark eyes that glinted with desire was here to torment him—to tease him with her exquisite flesh for which he could forever burn but never touch. Clad only in a thin swath of gauzy fabric wrapped about her ample breasts and a pair of loose fitting gossamer pants, every one of her delectable curves was tantalizingly evident, and Erik found his mouth watering at the sight.

With an alluring smile, she lifted a finger to her pomegranate red lips, capturing it briefly between her teeth. Slowly, bewitchingly the finger trailed down her long, graceful neck, over her collarbone and around the enticing curve of her breast. Erik sat up in bed, leaning his own fully naked body toward the ravishing goddess before him. He cared not that his face and his scars were exposed—he knew they did not matter to her. Nothing mattered at that moment, except touching—tasting—this delicious seductress who was standing before him.

"Erik," she purred as she lifted her finger from her own creamy breast to place it on his eager skin, and though he had been sweltering just moments before, he felt himself shiver at her touch. Down and down her finger traveled, flicking over his pebbly nipple, trailing across the hard plane of his torso, in the direction of his manhood, which throbbed painfully, ready for her attention. Out of his mind with desire, and forgetting the rules of their nocturnal game, Erik reached out a hand to tangle in her hair, meaning to pull her in for a kiss.

In an instant she vanished, and Erik's eyes shot open to find that once again, he was alone in the stale, oppressive room he occupied in the palace of the shah. The sun blazed in through the sheer scarlet drapes—a clarion call to announce that the night had released its velvet hold on the day. How many times had he seen this happen before? How long had he been in this blasted desert? A month…two…perhaps a year? Truly, he had lost all track of time, but what was time, really? His past and present seem to have all melted into one long, hot and uncomfortable day.

He pushed himself up on his elbows, and winced against the relentless pounding in his head. Squinting against the light, he turned his head and was relieved to see the full decanter of clear liquid perched upon his nightstand. He knew it was the only medicine that would be able to soothe the ever-present pain in his mind—a sweet succor that could dispel all demons.

Another throbbing was currently troubling him even more, however, and he began to move his hand between his legs to alleviate that much more pleasurable ache until the pain in his head became so sharp that he started to see stars. It would have to be the Arak first then, he decided, rolling over gingerly and reaching for his glass.

Once he had downed his second shot of the anise-flavored spirits, Erik leaned back and recalled the woman in his dreams. The mysterious enchantress had been coming to him nightly since he had arrived in Persia—tormenting him, tantalizing him with her bewitching seduction, making him desperate to feel, frantic to touch. Yet she disappeared instantly whenever he reached out a hand to her, leaving him hot, bothered, and most definitely frustrated. And though he often took it upon himself to aid his own affliction, he knew with an unquestionable certainty that his own hand could never bring the sublime satisfaction that her sweet flesh could offer.

It was almost as though he had tasted it before—long ago, in another life. He recognized the warmth in her voice, and it was as if he could actually smell the rose in her hair. . . But that was not possible. She was a vision—a dream—ethereal as the jasmine that wafted through the palace gardens. For what real woman could look at him—the Angel of Death—and agree to bed a corpse?

The stabbing pain in his head returned, and he was about to pour himself a third glass of the Arak, when there came a knock on his door.

"Leave!" was Erik's immediate response. Lust still roiled through his body, and he did not wish to see anyone until it had been spent, regardless of how insufficiently.

"I have a delivery, Master Erik," came the persistent voice from behind the door.

Recognizing the voice of Kaveh, Erik groaned. Why on earth was that fool guard bothering him with a delivery? Didn't he know by now that the supplies were to be sent to the build site?

"Take it to the crew!" Erik barked at the door, as he tossed back his head and took another drink. "What use do I have for building supplies in my bedroom?"

"It is a personal delivery," Kaveh's voice pressed, and with an irritated growl, Erik pulled himself out of bed, draping his black silk robe around his frame and covering his face with the black leather mask the shah had commissioned for him. He stalked to the door, flinging it wide in a burst of temper, his fiery golden eyes glaring at the cool, collected guard.

"You reek of Anise, sir," Kaveh commented, not looking at Erik, but staring past him at the wall.

"An effect of my breakfast," Erik snapped, "Not that it is any concern of yours. Have you never been trained in the proper way of addressing an advisor to the shah?"

"I beg your pardon, sir," Kaveh gave a slight, stiff bow. "I had forgotten your bosom relationship to the man you greatly wished to flee just a few short weeks ago."

With a roll of his eyes, Erik felt a distinct need to rid himself of the guard's presence. "What is this urgent delivery that required you to disturb me in my private quarters?" Erik seethed through gritted teeth.

"A letter arrived for you," the guard announced, producing the folded parchment between his fingers, "from your fiancée. She said it was imperative that I deliver it to you privately, stating that it was not for the shah to read."

Erik's eyes narrowed as he looked at the missive in the guard's hand. "You must be mistaken," Erik retorted. "I have no fiancée." Without another word, he began to shut the door.

Kaveh took a step forward into the room, blocking the door's movement, and asked, "Are you certain? The letter is clearly addressed to you." He held his hand out toward Erik, gesturing to the writing on the front of the letter. "Of course," he added as an afterthought, "I'm not certain it is the proper address for one in close relation with the shah…"

"Of course I am certain!" Erik spat, the guard's provocative words exacerbating his already aggravated state. "Don't you think I would remember a fiancée?"

"You did seem rather eager to leave Mazandaran when you first arrived," Kaveh countered still calm, as Erik placed his hands on his hips and began to pace the floor in anger. "Perhaps there is a life you left behind that you no longer recall, now that you are…advising…the shah?"

Whirling around, Erik tore the mask from his face and bellowed, "Look at me!" He instantly closed the distance between the two of them until he was shoving his face right into Kaveh's. When the guard finally flinched and trained his eyes on the ground, Erik continued, "You can't look at me, can you? Of course not! I am Death! I am Decay! The Living Corpse! Man's worst nightmare! What woman in the world could ever bear to gaze upon me, to touch me, to force herself to come anywhere near me—much less agree to marry me? I have no fiancée, foolish guard! You are mistaken!"

Erik stood there, breathing heavily when his outburst was done. His normally pale skin was red with exertion, and he could feel his heart now pounding in perfect rhythm with the ache in his head.

Slowly, Kaveh lifted his head, and uncharacteristically locked eyes with Erik, staring intently into the young architect's golden gaze. In a quiet voice, which belied his raging pulse, the guard said simply, "She knows your name." And pressing the letter into Erik's trembling hands, Kaveh turned to go.

Erik stood, staring at the shut door, for a few long moments after the guard had gone. His vexing words had done much to wreak havoc on Erik's already foul mood. Such fantastical notions of a life before Persia! Had there even been a life before Persia? Certainly there had never been one in which he was respected for his skills, or recognized for his cunning intellect. Whenever he was fool enough to try to remember what had come before these rosy hours at Mazandaran, he could only recall flashes of pain, the crack of a whip, or boards of wood blocking out the light. No, life before Persia seemed to have been a bleak existence of neglect and abuse—with hatred wielded in his path at every turn. Why would he ever wish to dwell on such unpleasantness when here he knew power? Here he knew strength! Riches were thrown at his feet, and people cowered in his presence—not out of disgust, but out of fear! Before Persia he had been weak, mistreated, a sniveling dog whimpering at the heel of a cruel, heartless master. He had not been valued, as one would assume if he had had a fiancée. He had not been loved. Never…loved.

Erik looked down at the folded paper in his hand. His name was indeed scrawled on the front, in curvy letters that made the air catch in his lungs. _Erik_ , the breathy voice called sweetly in his mind. Suddenly, the enchantress from his dreams was smiling before him, the sun glinting off her onyx waves, tangible affection in her deep brown eyes. She was wearing a long white shift and her arms were stretched out to receive him. _I see you, Erik_ , she whispered to his heart. _Come to me_.

Stepping forward into her welcoming arms, he felt a warmth he was sure he had never before known fill his spirit. This was no carnal fever, but rather an unexplainable certainty that he somehow belonged to her-that the two of them were somehow one. Gazing yearningly into her soulful dark eyes, he lifted his hand to caress her beautiful silken cheek, and watched in horror as she dissolved before his very eyes.

"No!" he screamed as he fell to his knees, feeling as if his insides were being rent apart-a knife splitting his head in two. "You were only a phantom," he growled, heaving for air as his body curled in on itself in agony. "Only a ghost."

He spent a long time on the floor trembling, working to calm his breathing, striving to quiet his nerves as he desperately willed himself to forget that hair, those lips, those eyes. Still on his knees, he dragged his wretched form back to his nightstand. As he reached for the half empty bottle of Arak, the letter fluttered from his grasp, settling beneath his bed. And the clear liquid sloshed onto the floor as he clumsily poured himself another drink.

* * *

Lady Sophia's crystalline laughter was echoed by the clink of the wine glasses as they shared an after dinner toast in honor of getting reacquainted.

"It has been far too long, since we've done this." Sophia said, sipping daintily from her glass. "I have truly missed you, Giles."

"I am sorry, Sophie," Giles said, downing a bit more of his own wine than he should have in one gulp. "It has just been such a busy time with the Opera House finally open. There've been business meetings and rehearsals to observe and…"

"I know, I know," Sophia laid a hand over his from across the table. "You are quite in demand," she smiled.

Giles chuckled at her choice of words. Quite in demand, he thought. But not by the right person. No, he scolded himself, taking another large sip from his wine glass. He would not let this night be dominated by thoughts of Antoinette. Visions of the fiery dancer who was quite attached to another man had plagued too many of his nights already. That was the entire point of this evening—to try to get her out of his mind.

The lady Sophia was very beautiful in her own right, with ivory skin and sun-kissed cheeks, chestnut hair and piercing blue eyes. He knew they made a striking couple and they had spent many enjoyable evenings together before he had met Antoinette on that busy Paris street. He was determined to make this night another one.

"Still, you should not allow yourself to get so caught up in work that you leave no room for fun," Sophia purred, stroking her fingers lightly across the back of his hand.

Looking across the table, he gazed intently into her eyes as he said, "That is why I am with you tonight."

A coy smile gracing her lips, Sophia replied, "I believe I am ready for you to take me home, Giles Giry. And tonight, I hope you will not leave me with only a kiss on the hand."

Giles swallowed the rest of his wine before tossing a large wad of bills on the table and rising from his chair. Helping Sophia out of her seat, he snaked his arm firmly about her waist and leaned in to her ear to murmur, "My dear Sophie, tonight I do not plan to leave you at all." With a throaty giggle, Sophia leaned into him as they walked to the waiting carriage.

* * *

"I always sensed you were diabolical, Erik," the shah purred, with barely contained delight, as they stood side by side in the hidden tunnel watching the prisoner stagger his way through the maddening maze of mirrors. He had been flogged first, his body littered with open wounds, before being set loose into the still experimental torture chamber, having been promised his freedom if he could find his way out. "But this…this is beyond even my own exacting expectations."

"There is nothing more torturous," Erik returned coldly, arms clasped behind his back, "than having your own image reflected back to you." He observed with clinical eyes as the poor wretch crawled now on his hands and knees, having stumbled to the floor when met with a particularly gruesome reflection. The mirrors that lined every inch of wall in the chamber were meant to reshape reality, stretching and twisting every blemish, magnifying every flaw. Where a prisoner expected to see a comforting, familiar reflection, he was met only with a monster, heinous to look at, hideous to behold. No matter what corner he turned, no matter how swiftly he ran, some different aspect of that same beast—heaving, sweating, and covered in blood—would surely follow after him. And should the captive shatter one of the mirrors, the horror would only intensify—the ghoul's presence increasing by the number of shards. The most torturous aspect of all, of course, was the knowledge that the ogre staring out of the mirror was certainly the criminal's true self—distorted and deformed by his own misdeeds into a leviathan that was now snarling and foaming, hungry to devour his own soul.

It was entirely possible to escape Erik's torture chamber. It was actually quite easy to navigate the maze to freedom if the fugitive could remain in charge of his emotions and think with logic instead of fear. But that would require recognizing his true self in the reflections displayed to him, and accepting his own distorted nature. Erik had not seen one man emerge successful yet.

"But truly, Erik," the shah continued, glee coloring his voice. "You have a way of contorting the comely to make it absolutely horrifying! Take the mirrors in my throne room, for example. They glisten and shimmer so brightly that one might imagine they had entered Paradise itself. But your mirrors…" he paused briefly, at a loss for words. "Your mirrors are something different entirely."

"The mirrors in your palace create the illusion of beauty," Erik said in velvet tones, as he watched the prisoner finally cease dragging himself across the floor. "But they lie. There is no heaven waiting behind them—only the silver coating of the glass. My mirrors, distorted though they are, tell the truth about a man's soul, reflecting the hideous nature that is hidden just beneath the surface. I reveal to these prisoners themselves as they truly are. That is why it is torture. That is why they know pain. True self awareness can be a terrifying thing."

With a smug grin and a chuckle, the shah patted Erik on the back. "Erik, I do believe you could draw darkness out of light itself!"

As he saw the man in the chamber cry out pitifully for mercy, he remarked, "I have always found darkness in mirrors." His knuckles grazing against the catgut noose at his side, Erik tripped the waist level switch that made the mirror slide slightly to the left, allowing him to enter the reflective room. The prisoner's eyes widened in horror, as he gazed upon the approaching figure, clad all in black, a swath of dark fabric covering his face. The captive tried to scramble away, but it was no use—his strength had been spent. The dark creature carefully removed the fabric from his face, revealing the skeletal visage underneath. "Death has come to show you mercy," the silvery voice whispered as the noose closed tenderly around its victim's throat, eternally quieting the man's screams.

 **AN: Oh, poor, poor Erik. So confused about everything-so lost, so broken-and now, he's turned into the Angel of Death! And it's all that wicked shah's fault!**

 **But Giles is pretty conflicted too-and while he's trying to soothe his confusion with the lovely Lady Sophia, something tells me it's not going to work.**


	46. Chapter 46

CH 46

Giles sat in his office, reviewing the Garnier's books as the second season drew to a close. It had been a very successful season for the opera house, both artistically and financially. Casting Antoinette Laramie as lead dancer was the final step to winning unanimous critical acclaim, and a well-reviewed show resulted in an auditorium in which every seat was sold. Even if they were not particularly interested in the performing arts, all the most important people in Paris wanted to appear as if they were. So they flocked in droves to the city's new throne of music to be seen as faithful patrons of local culture, guaranteeing the Garnier's financial stability while doing so.

Still, it had been a busy season, putting on airs and rubbing elbows with the wealthy and elite. The company and managers alike were all looking forward to some rest and relaxation after this last week of performances. And Giles Giry was no exception.

He had grand plans to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city for a few days, having agreed to join Sophie at her country estate. He had greatly enjoyed the lovely Sophia's company since renewing their acquaintance several weeks back. She was the perfect companion to bring to the endless string of social engagements he was required to attend as manager. While he stood by looking forward to leaving, she could effortlessly charm the upper crust of Parisian society with her winsome beauty and her sparkling conversation. And after the get-togethers, in private moments, she was an eager lover, always aiming to bestow on him the utmost pleasure and delight.

It was almost enough to make him forget the dark eyes that still haunted his dreams, or the elegant dancer's form he would imagine he held in his arms as he drifted off to sleep. _Soon,_ he kept telling himself, _I will be able to kiss Sophie without thinking of Antoinette_. For he was certain that once her fiancé returned home, Antoinette would scarcely be thinking of him. No, she would most assuredly not spare even a second thought for her poor kindly manager, when she was wrapped in her beloved's embrace.

A loud knock interrupted his musings with the promise of once again distracting his mind from the beautiful dancer. But before he could even call out his acknowledgement, the door opened and Antoinette Laramie herself—the root of his torment—barreled her way into the office.

"Antoinette!" Giles said, eyebrow rising when instead of making herself comfortable in the cushioned chair across from him, she began to pace the rug in front of his desk, "What seems to be troubling you?"

"I want you to take me to Persia, Giles," she said plainly, stopping her circuit around the rug to look him straight in the eye.

Giles flinched backward in his chair. "Take you to…" he began to repeat under his breath. "Antoinette, are you mad?"

"No I am not mad yet, Giles," she insisted, planting her hands firmly on the edge of his desk. "But I will most assuredly lose my grip on my sanity if I do not find out what is wrong with my fiancé."

"Why are you so certain something is wrong?" Giles began, pushing back from his desk and shaking his head.

"He still has not written me Giles!" Annie spat. "It has been months with no word."

"I told you, he may be finding it difficult to get mail out of Persia."

"He would find a way," Annie insisted, her eyes blazing with her certainty of the statement. "Giles I have no way of knowing what's happening. I don't know if he's ill, if he's hurt…" she looked down, taking a deep breath, and continued in a suddenly small voice. "If he has replaced me with another…"

"Oh, Antoinette," Giles shook his head, "Don't think like that…"

"What am I supposed to think, Giles?" She asked, her voice strong once more. "I simply do not know what is happening and it is destroying me! I do not remember the last time I slept. Worry for him consumes me during the day. Madame Delacroix continues to be displeased with my dancing…"

"Antoinette," Giles interjected, rolling his eyes. "That's what Madame Delacroix does. She finds things to be displeased about. That is her job and her particular vocation. There is nothing wrong with your dancing."

"Giles," Annie continued with resolve, completely disregarding his remark. "I simply cannot live like this any longer. I am not equipped to handle this uncertainty. I need you to take me to Persia."

"You are out of your mind," he spat through clenched teeth, rising from his chair and crossing to her side of the desk. "There is no way I will take you to Persia!" he told her, folding his arms in front of his chest.

"But why not!" Annie persisted, her eyes incredulous at his refusal. "We are about to close in a week. There is time before we must begin to prepare for the next season. Surely we could make it to Persia and back…"

"We could send another letter…" Giles tried to suggest another course of action.

"That did not work the last time!" Annie shook her head.

"It is dangerous there, Antoinette!" Giles pleaded with her to understand.

"All the more reason we must go!" she insisted, throwing her hands in the air. "I have to see that he is alright!"

"Antoinette," he beseeched her, "Persia is no place for a young, vulnerable girl like you."

Sticking her chin up and moving in very close to Giles, Annie told him, with hands on her hips, "I am not a little girl, Giles! I am not so very young or vulnerable! And I can do this! I have to."

Realizing that no logic would sway her, Giles cleared his throat and told her calmly, "Antoinette, I already have plans for much of the time off. With Sophie."

Annie looked at him in silence for a moment, realizing what his words must mean. She was aware of the relationship between Giles and Lady Sophia Rochefort, the beautiful young noblewoman who had accompanied him to many official functions in the past month. Their affiliation had obviously blossomed into a liaison of a more personal nature, and if Giles wished to spend his well-earned time off with her, then Annie had no right to interfere.

Nodding quietly, Annie simply said, "I see," before she turned to go.

Giles grabbed her forearm before she could leave. "What does that mean?" he asked her in exasperation.

"It means that I would never dream of interrupting your holiday with the Lady Sophia," she told him plainly.

"So then you will drop this nonsense about going to Persia?" he inquired, wanting to be certain of her intentions.

"Not at all," she informed him with a chuckle. "I will simply find a way of getting there myself."

"Antoinette…" Giles began, with a frustrated sigh, raking his fingers through his curls.

"I love him!" Annie said, her chin up, her brown eyes blazing directly into his. "I must find him. He would move heaven and earth to find me, if the situation were reversed."

Giles marveled at her steadfast conviction and her willingness to risk her life for her fiancé. _Is this what it is to be loved by this woman?_ he wondered, wishing that the passion and devotion he saw now in her eyes were directed toward him. _Her fiancé truly is a lucky man._

"What if you find him and it is as you'd feared," Giles asked her, trying one last method for changing her mind. "That he has found another woman and was merely too cowardly to write and let you know."

A flash of pain shot through Annie's eyes and made Giles immediately regret his words. It only lasted a second, however, before Annie drew herself up and said, "Then at least I will know, Giles Giry." She made to walk past him, but Giles positioned himself in front of the door.

"Antoinette," he said, with a huff. "You are not going to Persia alone." And when she simply looked expectantly in his eyes, he added, softly, "I will come with you."

Annie's eyes lit up at his words, because truly, she felt much safer knowing that Giles would be traveling with her. But then she remembered his reason for objecting.

"But what about your plans with the Lady Sophia?" Annie asked, confused.

Giles sighed one final time, hands on his hips, as he told her, "Plans can be changed."

* * *

"Sire," Esther bowed her head as the shah, in his brilliant white robes, entered the harem. "We were not expecting you. Are you here to see Mahin?" she asked, referring to the girl who had become the shah's preferred concubine after Faribah had fallen out of favor.

"I had no plans to visit today," the shah remarked, a smirk spreading over his lips. "Though now that I am here, I do believe I shall mix business with pleasure."

Understanding his meaning that Mahin would, in fact, be required of him, she turned to the eunuch who stood guard at the entrance to the inner room. "Abal! Ready Mahin for his majesty's visit."

The eunuch nodded, turning to enter the women's private chamber—his unique… condition …making him the only male, save for the shah, who could do so without fear of losing his head.

When he was gone, Esther, the Harem elder, regarded the ruler. "If Mahin is to be your pleasure, Sire, what, then, is your business?"

"The Dark Angel has done well for me, Esther," he said, not noticing the shudder that ran through the woman's body at the mention of the man who had stuck fear into all the residents of Mazandaran. "His chamber of mirrors is truly remarkable."

"I have heard that it is a ghastly place, Your Highness," Esther replied. "One that terrifies your enemies and leaves them rather compliant to your will."

"Exactly, Esther," the shah chuckled. "That is why it is so extraordinary! The young architect outdid himself, truly earning the title Angel of Death."

"I see Master," she said, still feeling a bit queasy, recalling the tales of how prisoners walked into the chamber willingly, certain that they could earn their freedom, only to be carried out as dead bodies once the shah's new executioner was through with them. "And how does this concern the women of this harem?"

"The Angel has earned a reward, Esther!" The shah said cheerfully. "I want you to send one of your best girls to his quarters tonight."

"Sire," she said, shaking her head. "Surely you can be persuaded to reconsider? The girls are all terrified of him—they call him a demon sent straight from hell."

"Do you question my orders, Esther?" the shah raised an imperious eyebrow at her.

"Not at all sir,"Esther returned, bowing her head, grateful that she was too old to be considered one of the harem's best girls.

"That is what I thought," the shah said, with a sickly smile. "Now, I am certain Mahin is more than ready for me," he said. "She never takes much convincing. That is how she came to be the khanoum after all." And brushing the front of his robes, the shah passed through the curtains.

After allowing the shah enough time to have scurried off to a private room with Mahin, Esther entered the women's chamber to address them. Most of the girls were engaged in some kind of activity or another—some doing embroidery, others painting their nails—in an attempt to make themselves more pleasing to the shah. A few ladies were reclined on brightly colored pillows, tending to infants who had recently been born—a regular occurrence in a place such as this. The heavy, sweet smelling fragrance of opium lingered in the air, as Esther cleared her throat to get their attention.

"Ladies," she said, once most of the girls were looking at her. "It has been decreed by the shah, that one of you is to be made a gift."

Boisterous chatter filled the chamber, as the girls began to excitedly speculate about this new turn of events. It must have been a man of great import to be gifted with one of the shah's private girls. They were an elite collection and the shah did not part with them lightly.

"One of you," Esther continued, while the enthusiasm was still high, hoping to avoid the resistance she was sure would come, "will go tonight to the chamber of the shah's new executioner—the Angel of Death—and there you will present to him your body for his pleasure."

The eager prattle crescendoed into screams of terror and strangled cries of "no!"

"By Allah, be reasonable," Esther entreated them. "He is only a man."

Shrieks of "demon!" and corpse," filled the air as the hysterical women clung to one another, praying to the mighty one that they would not be chosen.

"The shah himself has given the order," the elder pressed. "Would you all suggest that we ignore it?"

"I will go," came a lone voice out of the frenzy that had overtaken the room. Esther turned toward to sound to see Faribah walking forward. The previous khanoum of the Shah, Faribah had retired to the harem in disgrace after angering the ruler by allowing her body to be seen by the man in question. They already had a history.

"Faribah," Esther asked, looking the younger woman directly in the eye. "Are you certain that you wish to be the one to do this?"

"I am," she nodded plainly. "I will gladly save my sisters this hardship. The Angel of Death once rescued me from my aggressor—protecting me from the shah's wicked intent. I am happy to offer him my flesh in return for him saving my life."

"You do understand," Esther continued in a grave tone of voice. "That if you offer yourself to him, he may wish …to remove his mask. Refusing him then would mean certain death!"

Faribah swallowed hard, remembering the hideous visage—more monster than man—that was displayed when the mask had fallen off the Angel's face during his fight with her attacker. Still she nodded, "I do, and I still wish to go."

"Then Allah protect you, daughter," Esther said, placing her hand on Faribah's shoulder. "You shall visit the Angel of Death in his chambers tonight."

* * *

Erik reclined in his bed, his last swallow of silky liquid smoothly rolling down his throat, its blessed sweetness filling his insides with a much more pleasant heat than the sweltering temperature in the rest of the room. With luck, the Arak would help him sleep—to put to rest the garish images of the day—the blood stained flesh, the delirious mutterings, the bulging eyes staring at him in disbelief as his lasso squeezed the final tortured breath out of its latest victim. How many had there been? He would never be able to say. His mirrored room seemed to bring him a never-ending supply of wretches and miscreants who begged for the mercy his noose could bring.

He had barely closed his eyes, hoping that the alcohol would finally silence the echoing screams, when he saw the curtains at the foot of his bed begin to part. His temptress was early. So it was to be a full night of agony and torment in return for his day of torture and death.

Clad in the translucent clothing of the harem girls, this night his enchantress wasted no time crawling up onto his bed, gazing at him seductively as she did so. She continued to advance, a bewitching glint in her eye, until she straddled his pelvis, pressing her womanhood against his eagerly growing arousal, eliciting a gasp of pleasure from his lips.

"Do you like it when I do that?" she whispered, grinding against him again, making the air enter his lungs in quick puffs, as his head fell back in pleasure.

"Yes," he hissed, the sensations more intoxicating than they had ever been before. Night after night she visited him—teasing him into a frenzy before leaving him an agonized mess—aching, hungering for just a touch—just a taste. Surely this yearning would be the death of him, but he was powerless to control it.

The temptress leaned her body forward, and raked her fingers along his chest, her long black hair falling forward and brushing against his nipples as she did so. Erik shuddered in response, but warred to keep his body still. He burned to touch her, to devour her with his lips—but he knew the moment he lifted one finger she would vanish—disappearing into thin air like she had so many times before. More than anything, he wanted to keep her with him, for he did not think he could bear one more night alone. So he bit his lips together, and willed his fingers not to respond, though, apparently, there was one part of his body over which he had no control.

"Oh, you do like that," she purred, when his manhood jutted upward to meet her, separated from her delicious flesh only by a thin layer of fabric. He moaned once more from the sheer torture of not being able to touch her, knowing that she would not be quick to grant him mercy.

Slowly, she began to pepper his body with kisses, using her tongue to lick and caress his feverish skin. Groaning when she sucked one stony nipple into her mouth, he wondered what he had done this day to be punished so vividly. When his body began to tremble with the effort it took for him to remain in control, she halted her exquisite ministrations and looked him in the eyes.

"Do you not wish to touch me, Angel?" she asked, her voice silky and smooth as the Arak he had swallowed before her arrival.

Erik pushed himself up on his elbows to meet her gaze. "Will you not simply vanish if I do?" he asked, breathily.

In response, she removed her blouse, so that her bosom was laid bare to him. Reaching forward she grasped one of his hands. Erik watched as she pulled it toward her, laying it unflinchingly on her left breast, squeezing his hand around her before finally letting it go.

Erik shuddered as he felt the firm, soft weight in his hand. "You…" he gasped between heavy breaths, "…are real?"

"Yes, Angel," the enchantress purred with a smile on her face.

Without another word, Erik grasped her to him, crushing his mouth to hers. He kissed her thoroughly, deeply, breathlessly, until they both had to come up for air. "For so long," he murmured, heaving for breath, as he tangled his fingers in her long black hair, "I have wanted you to come to me."

"In truth?" she asked, her eyes growing dewy with surprise.

"I have ached to touch you," he growled, squeezing her breast. "Burned to taste you," he punctuated his words with a fevered kiss to her neck. "My entire being has craved you—feeling as if I would surely perish if I had to go one more night without being inside you." He kissed her hungrily once more, running his hands desperately up and down her body, reveling in the feeling of her hot skin against his.

Her own breath coming in ragged gasps, Faribah threw her head back and relished his lips on her neck, on her collarbone, on her breasts. It was more pleasure than she had ever before known in service to the shah, and she felt a fleeting a twinge of pity for her sisters who had been too afraid to come and pleasure the Angel of Death. Certainly he meant for bliss to go both ways, and she herself was in danger of coming undone when, reaching down between them and stroking his manhood, she begged, "Please take me, Angel. Please…"

Erik shuddered at her touch and, with a single yank, tore away the flimsy fabric of her harem pants. Placing his hands on her hips to lift her over him, he cried out, overcome with emotion and need. "Oh God, Annie, I need you so much."

"Angel," Faribah muttered, pulling back slightly from his embrace, confusion breaking through the haze of desire. "My name is not Annie."

The light of a thousand suns suddenly filled his mind, burning away the murkiness that had infested his brain. He looked at this girl before him—the girl who was naked and ready to accept him inside her body—and it was instantly clear. This was not Annie. Her hair was black, yes, but it was straight, bearing none of the dizzying waves in which Erik loved to tangle his fingers. Her eyes were dark too, but they lacked the fire that lay behind Annie's. Her skin was not the creamy peach at which he had marveled so many times in the past, but the same burnished olive he had seen on the other women of Persia. This was the same slave girl who had been in service to the shah, whom he had saved that night in the pit—the night that his torments began.

What had he done?

With a visceral cry, Erik shoved the slave girl away from him, causing her to emit a startled yelp as her body landed hard on the floor. "Cover yourself woman," he growled, throwing one of the scarlet sheets from his bed in her direction, and turning away in disgust. Struggling to hold down the contents of his stomach, he leaned heavily on the nightstand, wishing the nausea to go away.

"A…angel," he heard the miserable slave girl cry. "I don't understand…"

Erik knew this whole situation was not her fault but at the moment, it didn't matter. The façade the shah had created was crumbling around him and it was a struggle for Erik to maintain any small bit of reason. "Go!" he commanded, his voice a dangerous rumble.

"But, Angel, I can be this Annie," Faribah protested, desperate not to lose the wonder she had been so close to possessing. "…I can be whoever you want me to be!"

"Go now!" he bellowed, turning on her quick as lightning, his golden eyes blazing in his rage. This time the girl did not protest, but merely tightened the sheet around her form and ran, a shower of glass and alcohol barely missing her as the Arak decanter hit the closing door.

* * *

"How dare you?" Erik roared as he stormed into the Shah's chambers, obviously interrupting an intimate moment with one of the man's many wives. A multitude of guards followed behind him, trying to hold him back, but Erik pressed forward, right up to the shah's bed. "What made you think I would want one of your private whores to come and seduce me in my own bedroom?"

"Erik," the shah said, looking up from his wife, who had pulled the covers up to preserve her dignity. He took in the man's wild appearance—hair disheveled, shirt only partially buttoned—and remarked, "I merely thought that you were a man. Pardon me if I was wrong in my assumption."

"I am a man!" Erik seethed through clenched teeth. "A man who is done being your slave! I demand my payment for that unholy atrocity you had me build. I am leaving in the morning!"

"Really?" the shah asked, gazing at Erik with cool detachment. "I do not recall relieving you of your duties."

"My duties were to build you a palace, nothing more!" Erik snapped.

"Oh, but, Erik," the shah reminded him a poisonous whisper. "You did more. So much more. . ." And then, a sickly smirk spreading on his face, he added, "And you never did build me that palace."

"I am through doing anything for you," Erik spat. "You are a vile, disgusting man who takes perverse pleasure in watching people suffer. I will carry to the grave my own part in the suffering you caused—but I presume that decanter of Arak beside my bed—the one that never seemed to exhaust its contents no matter how much I would partake—had a hand in convincing me. Were you drugging me, you bastard? To be certain that I would do your bidding?"

"Erik," the shah said, coolly, tenting his fingers thoughtfully, "Your struggles with addiction notwithstanding, you enjoyed every minute of acting as my executioner. It allowed your creativity to reach grand new heights, and gave you leave to revel in your own inner darkness. Mores the pity," he continued, with a cluck of his tongue, "that your own end will most assuredly lack your signature dramatic flair. Guards," he called with a snap of his fingers. It took four men, but despite Erik's most valiant struggles, they finally subdued him.

"Let me go!" He snarled, still pulling against the guards' hold.

"You are right, Erik," the shah said with a saccharine smile. "It is time for you to go. Take him to the dungeon," he commanded the men who were holding him. "You two," he said, to more of his men who were standing just outside the door, "search his chambers. Soon," he said, addressing Erik once more. "We shall see what reality the mirrors reveal to you!"

And with another snap of his fingers, the guards began to pull Erik out of the royal bedroom. Gathering his trembling wife close to him once more, the shah asked, "Where were we?" before leaning down to kiss her, as the guards dragged Erik, kicking and screaming, down the hall.

 **AN: Oh Erik! Something tells me you are in BIG trouble now...**


	47. Chapter 47

CH 47

Darkness.

Darkness stretched and rolled, ebbed and flowed as it filled the space all around him. It veiled the rusty bars that stood somewhere before him, in the distance, keeping him captive in this wretched place. It gave cover to the filth that had been spewed across the dirt on which he was lying. To someone standing outside the darkness, it would obscure even him, giving credence to the lie that there was nothing to be afraid of in the dark. Darkness could hide so many things. It could conceal blemishes, blur imperfections—make myths out of monsters. But there was one thing darker than darkness, and that was blackness that could not be hidden.

While darkness hid so many things, enveloping them within its protective mantle, blackness, on the other hand, expelled all. It multiplied and expanded, growing and spreading, until it squeezed out every hope, ousted any trace of faith. It suffocated in its closeness, and strangled with its inky tendrils, leaving nothing but a gaping void in its wake. It was this blackness—this nothing—that now resided within Erik's soul.

It had taken a while for the blackness to take hold. As he'd rattled the bars that imprisoned him, screaming his rage while the guards took their leave, he'd still felt the fire—he still knew despair at the absolute horror his life had become. His hopes and dreams had died in Mazandaran, and he had still possessed the strength to mourn them.

The shaking that had set in after the first few hours, paired with the unbearable pounding in his head, and the uncontrollable voiding of his stomach contents confirmed his suspicion that he had been drugged. It explained the murkiness in his brain, and the screaming pain in his skull that could only be quieted by the venomous elixir that was always ready, always waiting on his bedside table.

The drugs had taken everything from him—his integrity, his strength…his Annie. The haze in his brain had completely erased all remembrance of anything good in his past, leaving him with only flashes of hatred and pain. Annie's acceptance, Annie's hope—Annie's love—all trace of them were gone, until he hardly knew she had existed at all. She was nothing to him but a ghost, who would haunt his dreams nightly, reminding him of joys that were always just outside his reach. He knew now that the mysterious siren he thought was there to torment him with unattainable pleasures of the flesh, was really the image of his beloved Annie. Her love for him—his love for her—was trying so desperately to cut through the haze of his drug induced state, to break the chains of the horrors he had been inflicting upon himself. But instead, he fled from the pain, always reaching for another glass of the Arak—swallowing down poison as panacea, and effectively sealing his fate.

The night the slave girl had come to him he had been right on the edge of committing an unforgivable act of betrayal—of giving over his body to another woman. But thankfully, his beloved Annie—the precious angel his addled mind might not have recognized, but his heart would never forget—had saved him from that cardinal sin, and given him the clarity to finally see through the haze. But it had been too late. He had already proven himself to be what the shah recognized him as from their first encounter. A murderer.

 _You are good for nothing_ , Erik, his mother had told him countless times.

 _A demon straight from hell_ , the gypsy master had christened him. _The devil's spawn._

 _Words,_ Annie had called them. Words that amounted to nothing. Words shaped by ignorance and cruelty, by people that did not truly know him. Words formed by those who were simply judging by his face.

But the shah had called him a murderer before the man had seen his face. Somehow, he must have known that the true distortion lay inside.

He had only been doing a job for the shah—only carrying out the ruler's orders. He was merely punishing criminals that deserved punishment—men who had transgressed the law—who had transgressed the shah! He had even been convinced he was offering his victims mercy—ending their suffering after a gruesome journey through the torturous maze of mirrors. But what he was really doing was tearing away the promise of freedom when he could have granted it. He snuffed out their hope, silenced their dreams, and extinguished their lives with the tightening of his rope. He had become the blackness that left nothing in its wake. For once, his hideous face did not hold a candle to the ugliness in his soul.

So truly it was fitting that the he would face his death as the blackness left him with nothing. No hope. No drive. Nothing—nothing at all inside. I'm sorry, Annie. I'm so sorry I have failed you, he prayed in his mind, his misshapen lips bearing no strength to speak the words. Forgive me, my angel.

"It stinks in here!" came a voice from out of the darkness, and Erik slowly lifted his head to see the disgusted face of the shah standing outside his cell, a flickering torch being held by his guard. "Do you enjoy wallowing in your own filth, Erik?"

Though his words were meant to provoke, Erik could not find the strength to acknowledge the vile man's insults, and simply let his head fall back to the floor.

"I guess I was wrong to think you were a man," the shah continued, hoping to rouse some fight out of his prey before sinking in his teeth. "You look more dog than man, lying there on the ground, surrounded by vomit and excrement, patiently waiting to be put out of your misery."

Erik supposed it was true. The withdrawals had completely deprived him of control over his bodily functions, and the blackness had removed his ability to care. He only wished that the shah would get on with it. He had no will to go on living.

"Tell me, Erik," the shah continued taking on a quizzical tone. "Was Annie also wrong to think you a man?"

Erik's eyes shot open and he was on his knees in an instant. He locked his gaze on the shah—the devil arrayed in blinding white robes—and he growled, "How do you know of Annie?"

"Ah, Erik," The shah said, shaking his head with a loathsome smirk on his face. "You were holding out on me. Why didn't you tell me of your sweet little fiancé back in Paris?"

"I never wanted you to know of her existence," he snarled. "You are not fit to even breathe her name."

"Annie?" the shah asked, mocking wide-eyed innocence for a moment, before his taunting turned into laughter. "A simple search of your room revealed this little gem hiding under your bed," he waved the letter Kaveh had delivered in front of Erik's face. "Its very riveting reading, Erik," the shah added. "I thought you might want to relive a few of her sweet words to maybe brighten up your mood a bit."

"No," Erik shook his head. "No."

" _My Beloved Erik_ ," the shah began to read. "Aww, how nice. See, I told you her words were sweet."

"Stop," Erik said plainly. "Please."

"Don't be silly, Erik!" The shah winked and shook his head. "Let's continue. _It has been far too long since our last communication._ Yadda, yadda, yadda. . . _But I was recently told how difficult the shah could be_ —Really?" he asked, looking at Erik incredulously. "Do you think I'm difficult, Erik? I just do not think that's a fair accusation." Shaking his head, he turned back to the letter and continued. "… _As luck would have it, I was presented with a way to write to you…_ Hmmm. . . we're just going to have to see who presented her with that!" he said, raising his eyebrows while still looking at the page, making Erik hope that the kindly guard, Kaveh, had covered his tracks.

" _Actually, I have many letters waiting here, Erik, sitting in a pile at the edge of lake. I come down to the underground chamber often, to feel closer to you, and I write to you every day._ Oh," the shah said, with a smile on his face. "Isn't she just a devoted little thing?"

"I am begging you to stop," Erik said, the guilt of what this was doing to Annie eating at him.

"But we're just getting to the best part!" the shah announced. " _I miss you so much, my angel._ Now, isn't that funny!" the shah commented, looking over at Erik as the younger man fought for control. Hearing Annie's words out of the mouth of that monster was a nauseating experience and Erik had to fight to keep the bile out of his throat. "She calls you angel too! I wonder if she knows what kind of angel you turned out to be!" The shah went back to scanning the letter. " _I miss the sound of your voice… Both of us giggling…, you'd kiss me and make me feel as if I were walking on air…_ Ugh. I do believe this letter is making my teeth hurt."

"You can stop reading it then, if it is only causing you pain," Erik responded, knowing there was no hope that the shah would end this torment.

"Oh, but I can see that it is causing _you_ pain," the shah smirked. "So I shall continue. Besides, here's where she shows the kind of woman she really is. _I long to feel your fingers trailing down the curve of my breasts, my waist, my hips."_

"Dear God, man," Erik spat, holding his hands to his ears, feeling that unholy throbbing in his head begin to return. "Have mercy!"

 _"I thirst for the sweet intoxication of your lips joined with mine."_ The shah continued quickly, paying Erik's pleas no mind. " _I burn for that exquisite pleasure when you unite our bodies making us one that we might together ride out the waves of ecstasy."_

"Damn you, you evil bastard, stop!" Erik rose to his feet and grasped the bars, screaming with all that he was worth.

"So you are a man, after all, Erik." The shah said, looking calculatingly at his prisoner, who seemed to be suffering just as much as the victims in the torture chamber. "Sure seems like Annie here thinks so," he said, waving the pages toward Erik, while being sure to keep them just out of his reach. "Of course," he continued, his eyes growing cold and hard. "She's probably never had a real man. Perhaps I should pay her a visit. I bet she'd love a royal fucking if she's only ever bedded a corpse."

"You bastard!" Erik screamed, throwing himself at the bars of his cell and reaching for the shah. "Don't you dare touch her! Don't you ever go near her!"

"Relax, Erik," the shah chuckled, standing conveniently out of Erik's reach. "If I wanted to take your leavings to my bed, you would hardly be in the position to stop me. Besides, the letter's not quite finished. You want to hear the ending, don't you? Oh, Erik," the shah continued, clearing his throat. " _I am desperate to have you back in my arms. I love you. You are everything I need in this life to be happy—and without you, I have nothing_."

"You bastard," Erik seethed, shaking his head and gasping for air. "You disgusting, vile, hideous, mongrel, scum."

"Colorful description, Erik, but I think you missed a few words," the shah retorted in amusement.

"I will kill you," Erik hissed, his eyes glowing with a murderous rage.

"You see, Erik," the shah returned with a proud smile. "I knew you had the heart of a murderer. Funny thing is, though," he continued, raising a finger in the air, "I had been planning to kill you. In your own torture chamber!" he revealed as if Erik had not already known. "But now that I know about dear, sweet, luscious Annie," he continued, watching Erik's fingers ball up into fists, "I think it might just be more of a torture to leave you alive."

The shah stood back as, at the a snap of his fingers, the guards opened the barred door to Erik's cell, pushing him back when he tried to fight his way out. It took three guards to shove him to the ground, while the fourth brandished his curved scimitar. Gathering Erik's long black hair into his fist, and yanking it tight, the guard sliced the scimitar sharply across it, removing the hair from his head. The guards then loosed their hold on him, shoving his face into the dirt at their feet before they exited his cell.

The shah watched all this with a gleeful grin on his face, and when the guards were once again out of the cell, he muttered in a cool, deadly voice, "So that is what I'm going to do Erik. I'm going to let you live. And you can rot here, in this foul, filthy cage, remembering for the rest of your days, that you left Annie with nothing."

With an evil laugh bubbling from his throat, the shah and his entourage turned to go. Erik watched as the light from the torch grew smaller and smaller until once again he was plunged into darkness. But it was not blackness that had taken hold of him before. Because as Erik sat there in his putrid cell, replaying the shah's contemptible words, he grew more and more certain that hatred was greater than nothing.

* * *

"So is everything set?" Annie asked, as she sat in the cushioned chair on the other side of Giles's desk. "Are we ready to leave tomorrow?"

"Yes, Antoinette," Giles answered, with a nervous nod, placing his hand on two tickets that were lying on his desk. "I've got the tickets for the passage right here. And I have explained to Messieurs Moncharmin and Richard that I am returning to Persia to once again extend our invitation to the shah to become one of our patrons. I am bringing you with me, to provide a sample of the talented dancers we employ. They were a bit perplexed at first, but ultimately, they believed our ruse."

"And what of the Lady Sophia?" Annie asked, truly feeling penitent for interfering with Giles's romantic rendezvous. "Has she forgiven you for breaking your plans?"

With a heavy sigh, Giles answered, "That shall remain to be seen."

"I am so sorry, Giles," Annie shook her head. "If you want to back out, and make amends with Sophia, I can do this by myself."

"No you cannot!" Giles spat. "I could never allow you to go off to Persia by yourself. If your fiancé is half the man you say he is, he would have my head!"

"He is, Giles," Annie smiled. "He is a wonderful man, and you will know that once you have met him," Annie told him, reminding herself that she really needed to come up with some way to introduce Giles to the man he thought was her brother. Once they found Erik, she was going to have a LOT of explaining to do.

"But Antoinette, I beg you," Giles said apprehensively, reaching out and taking her hands in his, "reconsider. This will be a dangerous voyage. Attempting to enter Persia and seeking out your fiancé without the shah's knowledge is not safe."

"I will be fine Giles," Annie insisted. "I do know how to handle myself. Besides—you will be with me," she smiled, gazing into his eyes and giving his hands a warm squeeze. "That gives me courage."

"Antoinette…" he shook his head, his eyes pleading with her to see reason. "I pray that your faith is not unfounded."

"I know that it's not," she assured him, her eyes shining with unwavering trust. "I have been relying on you since I first came to Paris. I know together we will be successful."

He had dreamed many nights of seeing that look of trust in her eyes—that gaze of absolute, unshakeable faith. What a cruel twist of fate, that he should see it for this—a fool hardy mission to a dangerous land to find the man who was the true owner of her heart. He was risking his life for this. He was putting his job on the line for this. He had shattered his burgeoning relationship with Sophia for this. All for a woman whom he could not win—a prize that had already been bestowed upon another. Still, despite everything he knew to be true—despite the logic that warned him against it—he loved Antoinette. And love knew no reason.

"I hope that you are right," he said quietly, wishing for what must have been the thousandth time the he was the man for whom she would endeavor to move mountains.

"Monsieur Giry," came the voice of Monsieur Moncharmin as he simultaneously knocked and pushed the office door open, barely giving Giles and Annie time to release one another's hands. The man was heavy laden with an assortment of bags and boxes, precariously balancing several packages under his chin.

"Here," said Giles, quickly rising from his desk to lend his fellow manager a hand. "Let me take some of those from you."

"Oh, thank you," Moncharmin said, once his load had been lightened. Looking up, he saw Annie seated at Giles' desk. "Oh, Mademoiselle Laramie! Fancy meeting you in here."

Annie gave the manager a polite smile. "Monsieur Giry and I were finalizing plans for our trip."

"Ahh, yes, the jaunt to Persia," Moncharmin acknowledged, retrieving his handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiping away the sweat that had accumulated on his forehead. "Are you all packed?"

"Mostly," Annie nodded.

"Was there something I could do for you, Monsieur Moncharmin?" Giles asked, certain that small talk about their trip had not been the impetus of the man knocking on his door.

"Oh yes," the older manager recalled, bending over and rummaging through one of the bags that he had set down on Giles's floor. "I am just back from some errands around town and I stopped by the post office to pick up the mail. There are some bills here, Monsieur Giry, that should probably be paid before you leave Paris."

"I shall see to it," Giles responded, taking the letters from Moncharmin's hand.

"Oh, and Mademoiselle Laramie, there was something for you as well," the elder manger went back to rifling through the bag as Annie's eyes lit up. She glanced over to Giles, but he shrugged, not having any idea what Moncharmin might pull out of the bag. "Ahh, here it is. A parcel," he said, standing up again holding a medium sized box in his hand. Looking at the return address, his brows knit together in confusion as he read out loud, "Mazandaran…Isn't that in Persia?"

"No," Giles said, quickly taking the box from his grasp and placing it on the desk. "It must be some other Mazandaran," He said, placing the handles to the shopping bags back in Moncharmin's hand. "Perhaps fan mail. From Germany." He lifted the other boxes that the bumbling manager had been carrying and stacked them back in his arms.

"They have a Mazandaran in Germany?" he asked, perplexed as Giles continued to fill his arms.

"They have everything in Germany. Thank you for delivering the mail, Monsieur Moncharmin," he said, as he jovially walked the older gentleman to the hall, placing one hand on the man's shoulders and the other on the doorknob. "I shall see you upon our return." And with a flourish, he waved at his colleague, who was now looking terribly confused, and shut the door in his face. He stood there listening, bidding Annie to wait, until he had heard the older manager's footsteps fade away down the hall.

Annie stared at the package sitting on the desk before her. Mademoiselle Laramie, Paris Opera House, Paris, France, read the address on the top of the box, the return address simply reading The Royal Palace at Mazandaran. It was not a large box, but neither was it small. And there was only one person who could possibly have sent it.

Suddenly, her throat went dry, and she could hear her heart pounding in her ears. Finally, after months, her Erik had written. She should be overjoyed. So why did her blood suddenly run cold?

"Aren't you going to open it?" Giles asked, after returning to her side. "We may not have to go to Persia after all."

She glanced up at her friend and quietly nodded, swallowing hard at the lump that had formed in her throat. Though she usually read all of Erik's letters in private, she felt that Giles had earned the right to know what was contained inside this package. He had promised to take her to Perisa and to search for Erik against his better judgment. She owed him at least this much.

Her hands shook as she tore through the paper that had been wrapped around the outside of the box, and lifted the flaps to reveal its contents. Immediately, her breathing became shallow and she felt somewhat faint as she lifted out a handful of what she knew was human hair.

Erik's hair.

Her bottom lip trembling, she lifted the tousled cloud to her face, feeling its softness caress her skin, breathing in the aroma of sweat and dirt and sickly sweetness that clung to its black strands. She held it there, against her face, knowing instinctively that emerging from its comforting darkness would mean facing a garish certainty for which she was not ready—for which she would never be ready. Minutes or days passed by—she knew not which—as she simply sat there, immersed in Erik's essence, willing the rest of the world to stay away, begging it not tell her the lie she knew was true.

After a time, she heard Giles' sober voice from somewhere far away whisper, "Antoinette, there is a card."

Reluctantly, she looked up, and clutching the hair to her heart with one hand, took the card from Giles. She felt him place his hand firmly on her shoulder as she lifted the flap of the envelope and pulled out the small piece of stiff paper.

It did not say much—only three words, written in neat, measured scrawl. But they were the words that shattered her world.

 _Erik is dead._

And in the blackness that suddenly surrounded her, Annie crumbled to the floor.

 **AN: Oh Annie-it isn't true! It isn't true! But of course, you don't know that...**

 **Our poor couple-both so absolutely devastated and destroyed. How will they put themselves back together?**

 **Incidentally, if I ever publish Prelude on Amazon (which is my hope), this will be the end of the first book. The story is so long, that I see it more as a series. You've just read the end of book one. Thank you to all the readers and reviewers who have been with me thus far. The good news is, Book Two is already written and waiting, so I will simply continue to post.**


	48. Chapter 48

**AN: I'm sorry I have not had a chance to respond to the reviews for my last chapter yet-but I will.**

 **This chapter is the first chapter in the "Second Book" of the Prelude Series. A continuation but also a new beginning of sorts... Hope you enjoy.**

CH 48

There are moments when life hands out new beginnings in the guise of what seems like an ending. Sometimes in the ravages of heartbreak, the seeds of a new dawn can be planted. There they will lie, slowly maturing, quietly being cultivated, until one day the buds of hope can be seen sprouting from beneath the surface. If nourished and cared for in the most tender of ways, eventually these shoots can blossom into the flowers of contentment—tempered, of course, by the soil of loss from which they were sowed, but yielding the fruits of a certain happiness nonetheless.

None of these thoughts, however, entered Giles' mind to the slightest extent when he felt Annie's shoulder slip out of his grasp as she spilled listlessly to the floor.

"Antoinette!" Giles exclaimed, immediately crossing over to where she lay in a heap. He dropped to his knees beside her, tapping her lightly on the cheek, hoping to elicit some reaction. "Antoinette, wake up," he pleaded for a response.

When she still did not stir, he turned his attention to the little card that had fallen out of her fingertips when she'd collapsed. She had been distressed when, with trembling fingers, she lifted the morbid contents out of the box, clutching the bunch of black, uneven hair tightly to her face. But it had not been until she had read the card that she'd fainted dead away.

Picking the small piece of heavy paper up off the floor, Giles too read its crushing words.

 _Erik is dead._

 _Erik?_ Giles's eyebrows knit together in confusion, not understanding why news of her brother's demise would be coming from Mazandaran, when he was supposed to be convalescing in a hospital in Switzerland. Giles touched his fingertips to the bridge of his nose and momentarily shut his eyes. There was so much about this situation that he simply did not understand—from the origins of the parcel to Antoinette's visceral response. But when he opened his eyes and saw her still lying unconscious on the floor, he knew that explanations could wait. Antoinette was all that mattered now.

Trying once more to rouse her, he gathered her limp form into his arms. How many times had he dreamed of holding her close—of feeling her lying sweetly in his embrace? Never had he imagined it would be for this cause—but then again, Antoinette had a habit of surprising him. It was one of the reasons he could not help but love her, regardless of the fact that she had already given her heart to another.

"Antoinette," he entreated. "Please, Antoinette, come back to me."

Annie's lids fluttered once, twice, then finally flew open. Looking directly into Giles' anxious gaze, her own eyes were haunted with a devastating sadness. They darted around for a few seconds before looking down at the hand that was still clasped around the bunch of hair. "Erik, oh Erik," she began to weep, and turned her head into his chest.

Feeling as if a knife were piercing his own heart, Giles tightened his arms around her, stroking her hair and murmuring soft words of comfort in an attempt to ease her pain. "It's all right, Antoinette," he whispered. "Everything will be alright."

"No Giles," she said sniffling, her voice thick with the tears that had granted her temporary quarter. "Nothing will ever be all right ever again. Erik…" she said, the name hitching in her throat "…is dead." Her last utterance was a soul-shattering moan as the sobs wracked through her body once more.

Realizing that words were not what she needed, Giles simply held her to his heart as she cried, rocking her gently back and forth. He ached to be able to do something, anything to ease her pain and fix things for her. It was killing him to see this woman for whom he cared so dearly in such absolute agony. He did not even understand what was going on, however, so he was at a complete loss for what to do. It left him feeling utterly helpless at a moment when he knew Antoinette needed him the most. All he could do was continue to allow his shirt to become soaked with her tears.

After a long time, the sobbing stopped and her breathing began to even out. She lay listlessly in his arms, her head still buried in his chest, the clump of hair pressed tightly to her heart. The hour had grown late, and Giles knew she needed somewhere private to rest. The dormitories would never do.

"Antoinette," he whispered softly in her ear, "I want to get you out of here."

She feebly nodded her agreement, but did not lift her head.

"Can you walk?" Giles inquired. "If not, I can carry you, but that might be a bit more conspicuous."

Giles felt her slowly shift her head to look up at him. Her beautiful eyes were red and swollen from expressing her grief and her cheeks were stained with her tears. "I…I think I can walk," she said weakly, giving a quick nod.

"Antoinette," Giles murmured tenderly, reaching forward and stroking her cheek. "I am so sorry."

A violent shudder ran through her entire body as she fought to hold back the onslaught of new tears. Not able to speak, she only nodded again and looked down, as Giles helped her to her feet. When she swayed a bit, he put his arm firmly about her shoulders to steady her.

"Here," he gently commanded her. "Lean on me."

Gingerly guiding her over to the hooks that hung on the outside wall of his office, Giles selected a winter weight cloak and wrapped it around her. It was too warm for the heavy garment, but the deep hood would completely conceal her identity and preserve her privacy from curious, prying eyes.

Giles kept his arm about Annie as they walked slowly down the halls on their way to the stables. Since the stage was dark that night, the corridors were relatively clear, and Giles began to believe they might make it to the carriage without being seen. They had nearly done so when Monsieur Moncharmin and Monsieur Richard appeared to be making their exits too.

"Ahh, Monsieur Giry!" Moncharmin said with an affable smile, which began to fade when he noticed the smaller figure huddled against Giles' shoulder. "Is…everything alright?"

"Yes, of course, Monsieur," Giles nodded, trying to muster a smile himself while grasping for some explanation for the obviously female form tucked under his arm. "It is just that… the Lady Rochefort is a bit… _distressed…_ about my trip tomorrow. I am doing my best to comfort her."

"Oh," Moncharmin paused momentarily to clear his throat. "I, um…see."

"Let's go, Pierre," Monsieur Richard tried to usher him away. "Let them get on their way."

"Yes," Moncharmin nodded, but before following Monsieur Richard, he turned to address the cloaked figure. "Never fear, Lady Rochefort. I'm certain Monsieur Giry will give you _much_ comfort tonight."

At the sound of Richard clucking his tongue, Moncharmin's cheeks suddenly reddened. Realizing how untoward his remarks sounded, the bumbling manager tried again to offer kind words to the lady. "What I meant to say was that the sooner he goes, the sooner he will come."

" _Mon Dieu!_ " Richard exclaimed, slapping his hand against his face in disbelief.

Wincing at his slip of the tongue, Moncharmin tried one more time to correct himself, "For you. I meant to say he will come for you. As in _return_ … Oh dear…"

"Monsieur Moncharmin!" Giles interjected, irritation clear in his tone as he felt Annie stiffen in his grasp. "We really must be going!" He steered Annie toward his carriage, where the driver was already mounted, awaiting their departure. "By the way," he called back over his shoulder to see Richard dragging Moncharmin away by the upper arm. "I never did get around to paying those bills. You will have to take care of that yourself."

"We'll be fine, Monsieur Giry," Richard remarked, actually clapping a hand over his colleague's opening mouth. "Just go, before he can speak again!"

Giles closed the door to his carriage and tapped on the hood to give the driver the signal to depart. "That bumbling fool," Giles muttered under his breath, incensed at Moncharmin's inability to conduct himself in a less ridiculous manner. His aggravation at his colleague, however, lasted only as long as it took for Giles to glance over at Antoinette.

She had lowered her hood and sat there leaning her head against the coach window, looking out forlornly at the streets of Paris as the opera house grew smaller and smaller in the distance. Silent tears fell from her eyes as she lifted the clump of hair once again to her face and breathed in deeply, the matted strands capturing her sadness as his now soaked shirt had done back in the office.

At once crestfallen at the sight of her sorrow, Giles made her an unspoken promise. _I will get you through this, Antoinette. Whatever it takes._

* * *

The sheer exhaustion and stress of the afternoon had been too much for Annie, and by the time the carriage arrived at Giles's house, she had fallen fast asleep. Exiting briefly to thank the driver for his troubles and instruct him to open the door, Giles replaced the hood on Annie's head, pulling it forward to cover her face, and lifted her into his arms. Gently tucking her head into the crook of his neck, he carried her threshold style across the entrance, taking her directly up the wide staircase to one of the guest bedrooms. As delicately as he could, he unfastened the cloak, letting it fall from her shoulders before he placed her carefully down onto the bed. He pulled the coverlet up, tucking it securely under her chin, before crossing over to the small writing desk in the corner of the room. Taking a pen and a clean sheet of paper, he wrote,

 _Antoinette—_

 _I am downstairs. If you find yourself in need of anything, you need only ask, and you shall receive it. I will listen, as soon as you are ready._

 _I am here for you._

 _Giles_

He placed the note next to her pillow, then, closing the door quietly behind him, he emerged from her room and made his way downstairs. Gathering his servants into the parlor, he instructed them to tell no one of the mysterious guest he had in the bedroom upstairs. "She is a sick friend," he told them by way of explanation. "And she needs a quiet place to recover from her illness." And then, to make completely certain Annie would retain her privacy, he gave them all the rest of the evening, as well as the next few days off with pay.

Once the servants had cleared out, thanking him profusely for the unexpected holiday, Giles poured himself a drink, taking the bottle with him as he sat down in front of the fire. He was not one who was often given to melancholy, but he found himself growing pensive as he contemplated Antoinette's situation.

He had been smitten with her from the moment he first saw her, looking for a place to stay on the unforgiving Paris streets. Knowing he could not allow her to come to ruin, he had rented her his cottage, hoping that he might be able to get to know her better. But her surly brother had displayed an instant dislike for him, making it impossible for Giles to become better acquainted with Antoinette until after the man had left for Switzerland.

He and Antoinette had grown closer—even attending the opening night ball together at the start of the second season. Giles had so enjoyed holding her in his arms that evening, dancing every dance the orchestra played. He had even been so emboldened as to try to kiss her. But it had been then that she'd revealed to him that she was promised in marriage to another man—a man she had never mentioned before—a man who's name she never told him.

Her fiancé was currently employed by the shah of Perisa, working on a new palace in Mazandaran—the very city from which news of her brother's demise had arrived. And yet, none of Giles's inquiries on the matter revealed that anything of the sort was being constructed in the Persian Capital. No, all the chatter out of Persia was about the new executioner the shah had hired, and how the man had built a terrifying torture chamber based loosely on the shah's own hall of mirrors. There was no new palace on the horizon.

Try as he might to make some sense of it all, Giles was met with an unending confusion. There was some bit of information missing—some piece of the puzzle that did not fit. And it was making Giles's head hurt to try to reconcile it.

Still, as his bewilderment crescendoed to a turbulent height, he kept coming back to one thing—the pain in Antoinette's eyes when she read the three short words that had been written on the card. _Erik is dead._

Giles knew that Antoinette had been very close to her brother. After all, she had refused to live in the dorms at first, because she wished to stay with him. She had to care for him, she'd said. She was all he had. Had their relationship truly been so intimate that news of his death would cause her to fall apart in the fashion he had witnessed?

Again, it did not make sense. He knew that family bonds were very strong, but Annie behaved as if she had lost a lover. _Her fiancé was in Mazandaran, but Erik was her brother._

Giles shut his eyes to try to block out the throbbing in his head. _It will all make sense once Antoinette talks to you,_ he told himself. _If Antoinette talks to you,_ he added, and he felt the pain in his head sharpen. With shaking hands, he poured himself another drink.

"Giles," Antoinette's voice, hoarse and dry from crying spoke his name.

Giles turned around to see Antoinette standing at the foot of the stairs, coverlet wrapped around her, the bundle of hair still in her hand. Immediately leaping to his feet, he crossed over to her, placing his hands on her shoulders. When she instinctively flinched back, he let his arms drop, asking her, "Antoinette, can I get you anything?"

"No," she said, shaking her head.

"Anything to drink…a bit of soup, perhaps?" he pressed, wanting so badly to be able to meet her needs.

"I am fine, Giles," Annie insisted. "Really."

"Alright," Giles responded, not believing her, but not wanting to put any pressure on her in her already fragile state. "Would you like to come sit by the fire?" he offered, since sustenance did not seem to be the reason she had emerged from her room.

"Yes," she nodded. "I would like that."

Giles ushered her over to the chair he had been sitting in, helping her sit down. He then walked over to the hearth, and leaned his arm on the mantle, sipping his drink to steady his emotions. They both stared at the fire quietly for a few moments, neither of them speaking—neither of them moving—until, at last, Annie broke the silence.

"Erik was not my brother," she stated simply, still staring at the crackling logs and dancing flames. "I met him when I was only twelve years old. My mother had died the year before and I was left living with my wretched stepfather who treated me as a slave and drank heavily. My life was miserable."

"I snuck out one night to visit a traveling gypsy fair. Erik was one of the exhibits. The Living Corpse, they called him. The Devil's Son. People would scream, and run in terror from his _hideous face_ , believing him to be a monster. But from the first moment I saw him, I knew. He was no monster. He was merely a boy, malnourished, abused, beaten—kept a prisoner by the gypsies for the money he brought in by displaying his deformity to wicked, judging eyes.

"I went back to visit Erik every night after the fair was closed to the public, and I learned a lot about him. He had run away from his mother—a cruel, unfeeling wench who hated him for the face she gave him. He had been captured by the gypsies, after growing hungry enough to try stealing a loaf of bread from one of their tents. He had never known kindness in his life—but I was his friend, and he was mine," Annie added, a wistful smile spreading across her face. "I would sneak into his tent, and he would play his violin for me while I danced. It was perfect—and we each knew happiness. Until the night we were caught."

Her eyes grew cold as she continued her tale. "The gypsy master was enraged then—believing us to be somehow stealing from him. He beat Erik that night—beat him to within an inch of his life! He would have killed Erik—if I had not killed _him_ first."

Giles's eyes widened at her admission, but she simply kept talking. "I slit his throat with a kitchen knife that I carried for my own protection, and I had to practically drag Erik back to the barn on my stepfather's farm. He had been beaten too badly to walk himself.

"I nursed Erik back to health, keeping his presence a secret from my stepfather. Our friendship grew even stronger, during the days we spent talking, dancing and doing chores together on the farm. I could tell Erik everything, and he knew about my troubles with my stepfather. That was why he kept a watchful eye, and he saw that night when my step father…" she paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before she could go on. "…when my stepfather tried to rape me."

Paying no attention to Giles's gasp of surprise, she went on, "Somehow Erik managed to break down the door and stop him before my stepfather could complete the deed. Erik dragged him off of me and snapped his neck—killing to protect me the same way I had killed to protect him. But now, we had no place to stay—for surely someone would discover my stepfather's death—even if he was a good for nothing drunk who had driven my mother into an early grave, and had then tried to violate me.

"We ran away together—finding a cave in the woods for shelter. We lived there together for five years, performing at a local marketplace to earn money to buy supplies. Those were the happiest years of my life," She said, tears glistening in her eyes. "Because it was during that time that we fell in love."

"I had everything I ever wanted in that cave," she continued after a moment. "A shelter from the elements, the man I loved—I never desired more. But Erik— _Erik_ was ambitious. My mother had been a dancer on the Paris stage when she was younger, and he wanted the same for me. Eventually, we came to Paris—that was when you found us," she said, looking over briefly at Giles, before returning her eyes to the flames. "I had to lie and tell you he was my brother. We had been turned away so many times already. I quickly realized that nobody in Paris wanted to house an unmarried couple under their roof."

"But by the grace of God, you gave us a place to stay. It was that first night in the cottage that Erik asked me to marry him," she revealed, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I was overjoyed. My heart had belonged to Erik for so long—I couldn't think of anything that I wanted more in life than to be his wife. Erik wanted so much to be a good husband—but to him, that meant being able to provide for me—to give me the life he had decided I deserved. I told him he was _everything_ I wanted, and it was true. But it wasn't enough for him.

"Erik tried to find a job, but no one in Paris would hire him. After a while, he was told about a job in Monaco—a new opera house being built by Charles Garnier himself. When he was promised a position, how could he refuse? And so he went off to Monaco, and later to Persia, to become a man and secure our future, always promising me…" she said, her voice beginning to crumble as sobs once again claimed her body. "We would be married immediately upon his return. But he's not coming back, Giles," she wept pathetically. "He's never coming back."

Giles rushed to kneel in front of her, taking her once again into his arms, whispering, "Shhhh…I'm here. _I'm here_." And tightening his arms around her, he felt hot tears of despair soak through his shirt yet again, watering the seeds of the love he had for her in his heart.

 **AN: Oh, poor Annie... :( But now, at least, she's been honest with Giles about everything. Do you think it will change anything for him?**


	49. Chapter 49

CH 49

"Antoinette, lunch is served," Giles said, when he found her once again in the overstuffed chair in the parlor, her hands resting in her lap. It had been a week since she'd gotten word about Erik's death, and in that time, Annie had become a ghost. She ate little, never smiled, and except for that first night, when the story of her relationship with Erik had come spilling out of her mouth—almost as if she were powerless to stop it—she hardly said a word. It was rare that she even left the bedroom on the second floor that had been hers from the time Giles had carried her in on that horrible, painful night. When she did, she floated down the steps to soundlessly take her place in front of the fire. She'd stare for hours at the flickering flames, but Giles often wondered if she ever saw them at all. She faced in their direction, it was true, but her eyes were vacant—her thoughts in some far off place. The fiery girl he had come to love was growing gaunt and weak—she was wasting away before his very eyes.

When his servants had returned, several days ago, he sent them away again—vowing that their wages would continue to be paid. He would send for them, he promised, when he required them to return to work. Since then, he had done the cooking and the tidying himself—but he did not mind. Antoinette's mental state was still too fragile to have very many people around, and he had promised to provide for her what she needed. But what he knew she needed most was nourishment—both physical and emotional—to help her grow stronger, if she was ever going to drag herself out of this paralyzing morass into which she had fallen. He had arranged for what he hoped would be emotional sustenance to arrive later today—but now he had to get her to eat.

"I am not hungry, Giles," was her only response, as she continued to stare at the flames.

"Oh, come now, Antoinette," Giles pressed. "I got fresh baguettes off the cart this morning, while they were still piping hot."

"No thank you," she said politely, her gaze never faltering from the fire.

"Well, what about a bit of vegetable soup?" Giles cajoled, coming over to kneel by her side, trying to keep a tone of humor in his voice. "I made it for you myself. Fresh out of the garden! Well," he chuckled, " _someone's_ garden. At least that's what they told me at the market."

"I am sorry for your trouble, Giles," Annie said hollowly. "But I simply couldn't eat a thing."

"Antoinette, you _haven't_ been eating a thing!" Giles responded, his voice growing a bit sharp as he begged her to see reason. "And it has gone on long enough. Besides, this afternoon, we shall have a guest."

"Well then," she answered, "I shall just stay in my room…"

"A guest who is here to see _you_ ," he interjected to stop her protests.

"Giles," Annie said, finally turning to face him. "I do not wish to see anyone."

"Well, _he_ wishes to see _you_ ," Giles informed her. Running his fingers through his curls in frustration, he spat, "You have _got_ to stop this, Antoinette. You cannot simply lie around in your bed, or sit here and stare at the fire all the time. You have a life to live. _You_ didn't die."

Annie felt Giles's words like a blow to the face, and black storms gathered in her eyes. Through clenched teeth, she spat, "I wish I had! I do not _want_ to live without Erik. I _don't_ know how!"

"Let me help you!" Giles voice grew louder, as he shot to his feet and began to pace the floor in front of her. "I want nothing more than to help you through this, Antoinette. I want to help you heal from your horrible loss. But I cannot do it on my own. You have to try too."

"Why?" Annie shrieked in repsonse, her own frustration reaching a fevered pitch. " _Why_ do I have to try to heal? _Why_ do I have to go on living?"

"Because if Erik loved you and lived with you for so long," Giles shot back at her, "then he knew you were a strong, capable woman. He _believed_ in you!"

"He _left_ me!" she shouted with a rage that boiled in the very core of her being. "And now I have nothing!" Burying her face in her hands, she sobbed as the pain and grief of losing Erik once again ripped through her body like a blade of molten steel, tearing a jagged hole in her insides.

Giles knew he had to be tough on her. He knew he had to be the strong one that would pull her out of the quicksand she was allowing to destroy her. But seeing her cry like this shattered his heart anew, and he found himself kneeling beside her once more.

"Antoinette, you will forever have the love that you shared with Erik in the years you had together," he said gently. "He must have known you as a remarkable woman—one who could look past his imperfect surface to see the person he was inside. He had to recognize your incredible talent, grace and beauty to know that you belonged on the Paris stage. I am sure he was well acquainted with your tenacity, and the fire of resistance burning in your soul. I know he loved you all the more for it. He _dreamed_ for you, Antoinette. And from what you've said, he was willing to sacrifice himself to make those dreams come true. You still have his dreams for you. You still have his love."

Little by little, Annie's tears stopped falling as she listened to Giles's impassioned speech. How could he know these things, she wondered, as she lowered her hands from her face, so that she could look at the man trying so hard to help her through her pain.

"And you have your position at the Garnier, Antoinette." Giles continued. "I know things have not always been easy for you there, but our production did not truly come together until you danced the lead. Once you stepped into that role, it was as if you gave us wings to fly. You were our missing piece, Antoinette. That is another thing you have."

"And," Giles trained his eyes on the floor as he added, in a soft voice, "you have me." Taking a deep breath, he continued, "I know that I can never come close to filling the hole that Erik left in your life, but I am your friend. And I will be here for you. If you only _let_ me."

Annie looked at the broken man on his knees before her. It was true—from the moment she met him, Giles had been a friend to her. If it hadn't been for him, she had no idea where she would be right now, Erik's loss having hit her so hard. He had taken her in and given her the space she needed to grieve, and all he was asking in return was that she eat some soup.

Taking a deep breath, she said softly, "Giles, I find that I _am_ feeling a bit hungry. May I have some of your vegetable soup now?"

Giles lifted his eyes to meet hers, and even Annie had to admit that the smile spreading across his features was beautiful to behold. Rising to his feet, he reached out a hand to help her up, saying, as he led her to the dining room, "It's an old family recipe, passed down through generation after generation of Giry."

"Really," she asked him, truly impressed.

"No, not really," he admitted with a grin. "I just threw a bunch of vegetables in a pot. I hope it actually resembles soup. Do you think I should have added water?"

Annie rolled her eyes, and found herself giving a reluctant chuckle. Immediately though, her heart rebelled, and she felt as if she were somehow betraying Erik. But Giles was right—she had to eat. And so she sat at the table, when with another one of his infectious grins, Giles pulled out her chair.

* * *

"Still not eating?" the guard asked, looking up from where he had been polishing his sword at their post on an upper floor of the prison.

Carrying a still full tray in his hands, his colleague responded, "Would you eat this slop?" Knowing the dogs would happily dispose of the evidence, he spilled the untouched meal into the courtyard.

"I would if I were hungry," commented the first one, glancing over his shoulder out the window to watch the dogs lap up their surprise bounty. "He hasn't eaten a bite in weeks. He must be starving."

"Perhaps that's his plan," remarked the other. "—to starve himself to death."

"It would be kinder to remove his head with the scimitar," the first guard mused, watching as the lantern light glinted off his now shiny blade.

"But that would be against the shah's orders," reminded the second one, as he leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms above his head. "He is to rot, remember?"

"Oh, yes," The first one said, using a little spit to polish off a final persistent spot. "His Majesty made that very clear."

"Sadistic bastard!" the second one muttered to the great amusement of them both. "I'll tell you one thing, though," he continued, after their laughter had subsided. "I am tired of waiting on him hand and foot. If he wants to die, let him die."

"But we have orders that he is to get three meals a day," the first one reminded his colleague.

"Yes, but _we_ don't have to carry out those orders," he responded, putting his feet up on the desk to rest. "The only reason the shah wanted one of us to bring him his meals is because he was considered dangerous. He's too weak to hurt a fly in his current state—all skin and bones…and that disgusting face of his!"

After a few more chuckles, the first guard asked, "Well, what are you suggesting?"

"Let the slaves deal with him," the second guard said. "He's no longer our problem. Not worth our trouble."

"Better tell the slave master to send a girl with a strong stomach!" The first one joked. "I bet not too many of them have seen a living corpse before."

"With the way he's starving himself, he'll probably be a dead one within the week," the second guard quipped. "Then he'll be their mess to clean up."

With another round of uproarious laughter, the guards knew they had their plan.

* * *

Giles and Annie shared a pleasant enough lunch. The food was good and the conversation, though sparse, was congenial. Annie managed to eat an entire bowl of Giles's _special recipe_ vegetable soup, which paired perfectly with the crusty bread he had procured. She'd even smiled a few times—forced smiles, to be sure—but Giles could tell that she was trying. And when he saw her lips turn up gently, into those tired, lopsided grins, he knew he had been right when he had listed the qualities that Erik must have seen in her—for he had seen them himself.

"Thank you, Antoinette, for dining with me," Giles said, when they had finished their meal.

"Thank you, Giles," Annie smiled again, politely. "For…everything."

"It was no bother," Giles assured her. It was true, of course. Nothing he did for her was ever a bother to him. "But now you should go upstairs and make yourself ready." He added, glancing down at his pocket watch. Our guest should be arriving shortly." Giles rose to clear the plates from the table, as Annie's eyes grew wide.

"Giles," she exclaimed. "What guest?"

"I told you we were to have company today," he answered calmly, balancing the soup bowls in his hands.

"Yes, but I thought you were just trying to get me to eat," she responded.

"Antoinette," he told her looking directly in her eyes. "I would not lie to you to get something that I wanted."

Annie looked down, guilt nibbling at her conscience, since she knew that she had done just that when she told Giles that Erik was her brother.

"Go get changed," he urged her yet again.

"But Giles," she protested, "I have nothing to wear." And it was true, since she had been resting in little more than nightclothes and one of Giles's robes since she had arrived.

"If you go into the room next to yours," Giles told her, "you will find a closet full of clothes that had belonged to my sister when she was younger. I am sure you will find something suitable in there."

"Really," Annie said, shaking her head, not sure if she could keep up the ruse of happiness in the face of a stranger. "I should just stay upstairs. It is your guest and I…"

"I already told you," Giles reminded her kindly. "He is coming to see you." And gathering the last of the lunch dishes, he disappeared into the kitchen.

"Coming to see me?" she asked herself, when she was alone in the dining room. "Why on earth would _anyone_ be coming to see me? _Who_ would be coming to see me?" She thought for one terrifying moment that perhaps the visitor was Monsieur Moncharmin, but then, remembering Giles's own state of agitation with the man when they were departing from the opera house the week before, she decided there was no way the bumbling manager would be invited into the Giry home.

Annie rose from her seat and mounted the stairs, entering the room where Giles had directed she might find his sister's clothes. It struck her as a bit strange—she had not even known Giles had a sister, and yet, she would be searching the woman's closet for something to wear. She opened the door to find a full store of frilly dresses in hues of rosy pinks and pastel blues. Smirking, she thought it was certainly fitting that a sister of Giles would have worn such bright and happy shades. She must be very much like him. And yet, with a bit more searching, Annie came across a dress that seemed to suit her mood. It was long and black—a mourning gown, perhaps worn when Giles and his sister had laid their parents to rest.

 _I will not even get to bury him_ , the thought lodged in her mind like a bullet, and Annie sat down on Giles's sister's bed, her legs suddenly not strong enough to keep her standing. _Mother_ , she thought, looking up to the ceiling. _I should be picking out a white dress for our wedding, not robing myself in black._

She let the tears come, as they so freely did these days, with no warning, and no mercy. But after a time, she dried her eyes and took a deep breath, making her way back to her own room.

She put on the dress, and tied her long hair back from her face, as she gazed at her reflection in the full-length mirror. _I look like a widow_ , she thought. _But we weren't even married._

Before the tears could arise a second time, Annie swiftly exited her room, closing the door behind her. She could hear muffled voices coming from the parlor below. It appeared their guest had arrived.

Annie slowly descended the stairs, seeing that Giles was over at the bar, filling two glasses with Scotch whiskey, while another man—one that Annie had never seen before—stood in front of the fireplace, his back to her. He was of average height, but his shoulders were stooped slightly forward, which suggested that he was an older gentleman. He wore a long brown overcoat that hung loosely on his frame, and his hair was a shock of dark unruly curls, reminding her very much of an overused scouring pad, and giving him a somewhat wild appearance.

When Giles finished pouring the drinks, he glanced up and saw her coming down the stairs. Still looking at her, a sympathetic expression on his face, he announced her presence to their guest.

"Here she is now, Monsieur Garnier."

Annie's eyes widened at the name Giles used, and the man turned to reveal a kind face marked by a thin brown mustache, and eyes filled with sadness.

"Annie," Garnier said her name with great affection, a compassionate smile spreading across his lips. "You are even more beautiful than he said."

Annie felt her head begin to spin, and she had to grab on to the stair rail to keep from fainting. The clink of glasses sounded from across the room, as Giles set them down swiftly to come to her aid. Placing his hands on her shoulders to steady her, he guided her down the final stairs and helped her over to her favorite cushioned chair.

"Antoinette," he said steadily. "This is Charles Garnier."

"I…I know, Giles," she said, shocked to see the man that Erik had so idolized standing in front of her. "But…how?"

"You told me that Erik had been working in Persia on Monsieur Garnier's behalf. When we received the word of Erik's…" he allowed his voice to trail off as he saw her eyes begin to narrow, bracing herself for the word it still pained her to hear. "Well, I contacted Charles to see if he knew what had happened."

"The news I received," the distressed old man said, "was that there had been a construction accident and that Erik had been crushed. They said they sent his personal effects to his fiancée in Paris. I tried to contact the opera house—I tried to get in touch with you. But they said you were away on a business trip, and that it would be some time before you were back."

Annie winced at the reminder of the devastating parcel she had received, wondering if that had been all that was left of Erik after the accident. Giles squeezed her hand tightly as she moaned out loud at the horrifying thought.

"Annie, I'm so sorry." Garnier said, coming closer to her. "You know, I promised Erik that I would apologize to you someday, for sending him to Persia, but it was supposed to be done at your wedding," he told her, unshed tears glistening in his eyes. "Not like this." He shook his head. "Never like this. Can you ever forgive me, Annie? For sending him to that hell hole?"

 _No_ , she wanted to scream at him, wondering if having someone to blame would make the pain go away. _I can never forgive you!_

But seeing the sorrow in the poor man's eyes—and remembering the kindness he had shown toward Erik—she only said, "Monsieur Garnier…"

"Please," said the older man, a few of the tears beginning roll down his cheek. "You must call me Charles."

Feeling tears threatening herself, Annie nodded, as she stood to face him. "Charles—Erik thought of you as a father. It meant the world to him that you called him son. You were one of the few people in this world who recognized his greatness—and showed him kindness. For that, I could never hold anything against you."

Completely losing the battle with his tears, the older man pulled Annie into a strong embrace. "You are every bit the angel he said you were," he told her through sobs. "Every time I spoke with him—every conversation—eventually his thoughts came back to you. He couldn't wait to marry you, Annie. He never stopped thinking of you. Many times I found him sitting on the rocks at night, gazing out at the ocean, playing melodies on his violin that he said were for you. He _loved_ you, with _everything_ that he was. Please don't ever doubt that."

"I _never_ will, Charles," she promised, as she clung to him, sobbing fully now herself.

They stood there for a long time, united in grief over a man they both loved. When finally the tears had dried, and they loosed their hold on one another, Charles took a step back. "I have something for you, Annie," he told her, walking back over to the fireplace where she now noticed a brown leather carpetbag rested on the floor. Reaching inside, Charles pulled out a spiral bound sketchbook.

"Erik was very limited in what he could carry on the boat to Persia," Charles explained. "He had a pile of sketchbooks, stacked about 2 feet high on the floor of his room. He couldn't take them all with him, so he left them in my keeping, meaning to retrieve them when he was done with the palace. When I found out what had happened to him," the older man sniffed deeply, I spent some time just leafing through them, marveling once again at the genius in that boy. But when I got to this one," he said, handing the book over to her. "I was reminded of the first night he spoke of his love for you. I think you should have it, Annie. To remind you that you were always foremost in his mind."

With trembling hands, Annie took the notebook from Charles, and guardedly opened the cover. The first few pages were drawings of building ideas he had had—much like ones he had drawn over the years in the cave. But soon she came to a full-length portrait of a ballerina, with hair that was shaded black as night. Her arms were extended out over her head and her eyes were serenely closed, an expression of perfect peace upon her face. Page after page, her image reappeared—sometimes she was smiling, sometimes she was sleeping. Always the ballerina was beautiful, as if drawn by the very hand of love itself. On the final page, there was a close up portrait of her face, the corner of her eyes crinkled in mischief, her lips turned up in a joyful smile. _Annie,_ he had scrawled at the top of the page. _Inspired by true beauty._

Annie had often told Erik that she could _see_ him—that she could look past the surface and know him for who he truly was. But this book— _this_ was what Erik had seen when he looked at her—a vibrant, happy, talented girl. A girl who brought him joy. A girl who brought him love. A girl _he_ saw as true beauty. This was his image of her. _This_ was his dream.

 _I don't know if I can be that girl without you, Erik,_ she whispered in her heart. _But for you, I'm going to try._

"Thank you Charles, for showing me these," Annie said, a new strength suddenly in her voice. "I truly needed to see them."

Later that evening, when Charles had gone, Annie went back up to her room and returned to the parlor wearing her own dress.

When Giles looked at her, a questioning eyebrow raised, Annie held her head high as she said, "It is time I go back to the opera house, Giles. After all, I am the Prima Ballerina. And there is a production for which to prepare."

And with another joyful smile spreading over his face, Giles rose to guide her to the carriage.

 **AN: Well...It seems that both Erik and Annie can be very stubborn about meal time! So what did you think of Annie's visitor? It looks like Annie's ready to make a new start...**


	50. Chapter 50

CH 50

Kaveh tossed a stone into the small reflective pool, causing ripples to dance across the black surface. It was not yet dawn, and the garden was still cloaked in darkness. The sun would rise soon, however, and he knew she would only have time for a brief visit. Not reporting for duty on time, would earn her a beating by the slave mistress, and _that_ was one thing for which Kaveh would never stand. Still, it would be good to see her, even if only for a short time. Many weeks had passed since she had greeted him with upturned lips and sparkling eyes. She always had a way of lifting his spirits. And now that the shah had declared his latest triumph, this time over death itself, Kaveh's spirits had plummeted to the depths of despair.

Would there _never_ be hope for overthrowing the shah? Would his sadistic control continue to escalate until all of Persia withered in his ruthless grasp? Kaveh could not see how it would ever be otherwise. The last uprising had been led by his own parents—members of the royal bloodline themselves—who could not bear to see what the man's selfish extravagance was doing to the citizens. They had died for their efforts—the shah showing no mercy in his tyrannical grab for power. Kaveh himself surely would have hung along with them—and he shuddered to think what might have happened to _her_ —if it had not been for the Royal Advisors having pleaded with the shah to at least spare the children. It would be a show of good will, they had said—a sign of royal benevolence. So the shah brought them out onto a public balcony and made a grand display of granting them pardon. And after the crowds had dispersed, six-year-old Yasmin had been given over to the slave women to raise, and Kaveh himself, was tossed in with the guards. It was tantamount to killing him by proxy, of course, since he was weak and scrawny in his early teens. There was no way anyone could have predicted that he would actually survive training.

Yet, somehow, Kaveh _had_ made it to adulthood, and still served as a member of the palace guard, although, in his opinion, his duties more resembled those of a butler—escorting visitors from place to place, seeing to their comfort. He met a great many people from faraway lands this way—and he often tried to warn them of the dangers that the shah presented. The smart ones left, straightaway. He had hoped the mysterious young architect—Erik had been his true name—would have been one of them. He had not seemed to be the type of man who would be swayed by the shah's lurid displays of excess. In fact, the man had insisted, beyond the point of reason, that he was leaving the morning after he had arrived. But that had not happened.

The shah had corrupted the ill-tempered builder, and then turned on him like a snake—but not before the man had provided him with his deadliest weapon yet. The Angel of Death, as the architect-turned-executioner had come to be known, had graced the shah with the Maze of Mirrors. It was a wicked distortion of the palace's throne room, replacing opulence with anguish, and imprisoning its inhabitants in a labyrinth of their worst nightmares. Though no shackles were ever used, not one of the condemned had ever escaped. Even the Angel of Death himself—who had been dragged into the chamber with his customary black hood drawn low over his head, shielding the crowds from his hideous visage—had succumbed to the punishing prison of his mind, not able to escape a trap of his own making. It had been a suitable end to a man who had made it so easy for the shah to dispense with _criminals_ —more often than not, men whose only crime was that they spoke out against the ruler's injustice.

But now, those voices were successfully muted, and few others dared to speak, knowing such a lethal weapon was in the hands of the viciously cruel man. The shah's hateful reign stretched on in a deafening, cacophonous silence, and Kaveh was not certain he would ever see it end.

"Are you here, brother?" the tiny, bell-like voice asked in a hushed whisper, and Kaveh stepped forth from the shadows to see his little sister enter the grove. Just as he had hoped, a smile brightened her features when she saw him and she ran to him, eager to be embraced in her brother's strong arms.

"My goodness, Yas," he declared, lifting her off the ground in a great bear hug. "You've grown!"

"Not so little anymore, am I brother?" Yasmin asked once he set her down, a proud grin on her face.

"Oh, you're still little, sister," Kaveh countered, ruffling the top of the younger girl's head—which still did not quite reach his shoulders. "But, perhaps I would not call you puny any longer."

With a heavy sigh, Yasmin rolled her eyes, earning a lighthearted laugh from her brother.

"How have you been, Yas?" he asked, ready to put their jesting aside. "It has been too long time since I've seen you last."

"I've been bored, Kaveh," she responded, walking over to the edge of the pool, and dropping herself to the ground in a huff. "There is always cleaning to do—always mending. And the mistress is never happy with my stitches. _They are as straight as a camel's back,_ she loves to say, tearing them out and making me start over. It's dreadfully tedious."

Kaveh nodded his head sympathetically. For a young girl who had been raised on tales of adventure and delight, he had to imagine a slave's lifestyle _would_ seem mundane and uninspired.

"But at least I get a new duty today," she said, her spirits perking up just a bit, as she dangled her toes in the pond. "—Probably because I am so atrocious at sewing," she added.

"Oh yes?" Kaveh asked, sitting down next to his sister. "What is this new duty?"

"I will be working in the prison," Yasmin proudly informed him.

"What?" Kaveh asked, a bit more loudly than he should have, shocked at his sister's words.

"I'll be working in the prison!" she stated again, this time, clearly excited by this new turn of events. "Bringing the prisoners their bread and water, and reporting back to the guards if any of them are misbehaving. It's all so terribly adventurous!" she informed him, her eyes shining. "Maybe I will overhear some secret plot or clandestine intrigue. I could be a spy…"

"You could be in danger!" Kaveh protested, a bit irritated at his sister's ridiculous titillation with the fact that she would be associating with thieves and murderers. "You must be very careful, Yasmin. These prisoners—they could be treacherous men."

"Oh, brother!" Yasmin dismissed his worry, with another roll of her eyes. "I can handle myself. I am 12 years old!"

"That is just the age when men will stop looking at you like a little girl, Yasmin…" Kaveh began to protest.

"Then when are you going to do so?" his sister retorted, eyebrows raised and nostrils flared in annoyance.

"Never!" Kaveh informed her plainly.

"Hmmmph!" Yasmin responded, looking away from her brother to stare out at the waters of the pool. "I thought as much!"

"Mother and Father always wanted me to watch out for you, Yas," Kaveh reminded her gently. "You cannot fault me for being worried."

"No," she said, still staring straight ahead. "I suppose I cannot. But it will still be a nice break from the mending…"

"Just…promise me you'll be careful, Yas," Kaveh urged his younger sister, reaching out to gently take her hand. "You are all I have left of them."

"I will be careful, brother," she assured him, meeting his eyes, a sweet smile on her lips. "I promise."

"You are so like our mother, little one," Kaveh said quietly, startled once again by how the blazing golden flecks swirled in her glowing green eyes. They were the eyes of a tigress—the same ones that their mother had possessed. And he could already see that one day, Yasmin would possess the same quiet strength and fiery spirit that their mother had displayed—strength which had compelled her to speak out against the shah's tyranny. Strength which had gotten her killed.

"Then you know where I get my sense of adventure, brother," Yasmin said, lifting her toes out of the pool, and drawing herself to a standing position. "But now I must be going. I cannot be late for the mistress."

"Of course not," Kaveh agreed, standing along side her to give her a final hug. "Go, Yasmin. And be careful."

Rolling her eyes yet again, Yasmin smiled, "Yes, brother. I will."

* * *

Yasmin carried a tray of food as she walked behind the guard and thought that prison duty was not nearly as glamorous as she thought it would be. Far from being a place of espionage and intrigue, the cells were filled with dirty, jeering men whose main goal in life appeared to be making Yasmin's skin crawl.

"Hey guard," one shouted, grabbing onto the bars of his cell as he ogled Yasmin quite blatantly, causing her to pull her robes more tightly about her chest. "Did you bring me my own harem girl? Straight from the shah's personal collection?"

"She is hardly a member of the Shah's harem," the guard answered looking straight ahead, never veering from his course. "Merely a slave performing her duty."

"I could use some of her services," said another captive, reaching out to her from between the bars, making her flinch away. "Come on, little girl. I could rule you as well as any shah could."

"Even better," called a third, to the sound of cackling laughter. "Let me show you my scepter!"

Feeling nauseated, Yasmin kept her eyes trained on the ground, preferring to watch the vermin skittering before their feet than to see the leering faces of the imprisoned.

"Let her alone, you filthy dogs," the guard growled over his shoulder, opening the door that would lead them to their destination. "It's bad enough I have to waste my time training _this_ little slave wench—I don't want her ruined so that I have to train another."

They entered the passage in front of them, closing the door to block out the prisoners' taunts and complaints. Walking down a long staircase, they were met with another door, made of heavy, forbidding wood, set inside a wall of stone at the bottom of the steps.

"Here is where you will find your charge," the gruff man said, turning around and brushing past her to ascend the steps once more.

Yasmin pulled her eyes away from the door and called after the guard—who was already half way up the staircase, "Aren't you coming with me?"

"Why should I?" the guard said, pausing only briefly to look over his shoulder. "I've had my fill of this murderous sot."

"But…but I," Yasmin stammered, fear balling up in her chest. "I don't know what to do…"

Looking at her as if she were insane, the guard answered, "You put his tray down, shove it under the bars, and then you leave. Can you not manage that?"

"But…but if I scream, will anyone hear me?" she asked, her fear reaching a near paralyzing pitch.

"Probably not…" the guard looked at her in confusion. "But why would you need to scream?" As soon as he asked the question, however, a smirk spread over his face, and he turned his body around fully to look at her. "Are you worried he's going to be like the ones upstairs? A perverted lecher who wants to you to provide him with more _personal_ services than you intend?" He came down a few steps so that he was closer to where she stood. "While I admit," he said, reaching out a finger to trace down her neck, making her close her eyes tightly in shame, "your sweet, nubile flesh would whet the appetite of almost any man, I doubt it will have that effect on the freak in there." Gesturing toward the door, he added, " _That_ thing is more monster than man!" And chuckling to himself, he turned and with heavy footfalls, made his way back up the stairs.

Yasmin stood there paralyzed, watching him go until the heavy door at the top of the steps slammed shut loudly behind him. Her heart raced in her chest as she stood there, trapped between two doors. She knew what lay behind the one at the top of the steps—sneering old men who were starved for physical affection to the point that if they were to break out of their cells, while she was in the corridor, they would likely tear her apart. Behind _this_ door—the door to the dungeon, where the shah kept his darkest, most dangerous criminals—lay a creature described as a freak. A monster. A _thing_. What would she find if she opened that door?

The unknown terrified her even more than the known. Her mind told her that it could be nothing more than a man within that chamber—a man behind heavy steel bars. She would only have to slide the tray beneath the small opening at the bottom of the cell, and then quickly run back out the door. She would be careful. She would be fine. _That thing is more monster than man_ , the guard's words echoed in her mind.

"You wanted adventure, Yas," she reminded herself, trying to bolster her courage. "You wanted excitement. It doesn't get much more exciting than this."

She took a final deep breath, muttering under her breath, "Allah, protect me," and then balancing the food tray on one arm, she opened the door.

The first thing that hit her was the stench. It was a revolting combination of vomit, sweat, and human waste. The chamber around her was black—the only light at all coming from the tiny lantern that hung from her hand. Did this creature—this _thing_ —reside eternally in darkness? Perhaps it truly was not human, because she could hardly imagine such bleak treatment for any man, regardless of his crime.

Once again balancing the tray on one arm, she held the lantern out before her, even though it did little to illuminate the room. "Hello," she called, hoping that some response would come to her, regardless of what it might be, since the darkness was already preying on her fears. But silence was the only answer, compelling her to try once more, "Is anyone in here?" Again, she was met with nothing.

Venturing slightly forward, she could finally make out the bars a few feet in font of her. Kneeling down, she saw the slot where she was expected to slide the tray into the cell. There was already another tray—apparently from breakfast—that was sitting there, completely untouched. "Ex…excuse me sir," she began, her voice wavering a bit as she called out in the darkness. "B…but have you finished with this one?" she asked, gesturing toward the breakfast tray on the floor in front of her. Waiting a moment for an answer that never came, she reached for the discarded tray, pulling it under the bars. "I'm just going to take it then," she said, carrying on her own end of a one sided conversation. "I've brought you something new to eat," she continued, pushing the new tray into the cell. "I hope you'll try it. At least have something to drink."

Yasmin stood, feeling a bit foolish to be talking to herself in the darkness. Still, before she made her way back up the stairs to main part of the prison, she asked one more thing. "I will be bringing you your food from now on, sir. Is…is there anything else I can bring you? Anything that you need?"

She stood there for a moment, waiting for an answer she knew would not come, when suddenly, something in the shadows shifted. Despite herself, she let out a little yelp of fright, and ran out the door to the staircase, shutting it tightly behind her. It was while she was leaning against the door trying to catch her breath, that Yasmin finally confirmed that the dungeon was not empty. For beyond the heavy wood and the cold, hard stones, Yasmin could hear the sound of weeping.

* * *

"Thank you again, Giles," Annie said with a sweet smile, as they stood outside his carriage. "I do not know what I would have done if you had not been there to look after me this week."

"Are you certain that you are ready to be back here, Antoinette?" he asked her, with a serious look. "Everyone still expects us to be in Persia for at least another week. You do not need to return tonight."

"I know, Giles," Annie nodded, hugging Erik's sketchbook tightly to her chest. "But it is time I try to get back on my own feet. I have been a burden to you far too long."

"Not a burden, Antoinette," Giles corrected her, placing his hand on her shoulder. " _Never_ a burden."

"You are sweet, Giles," Annie said, smiling and looking down. "But I will be fine. And I will see you tomorrow, I suppose?"

"Yes," Giles affirmed. "I'll be in the office to explain to everyone how our trip to Persia was cut short." Then, after a brief pause, he added, "Antoinette, if you need me—if you need anything at all…"

"I will call for you," Annie finished his sentence for him. "Now, really, Giles. I should get inside."

"Are you sure you do not want me to walk you…" he asked nervously.

"I'm _sure_ , Giles!" she insisted. "I will be fine."

Giles gave Annie one more sweet smile, and said, "Goodnight, Antoinette," before leaning in to give her a kiss on the cheek.

Annie turned her head so that Giles' lips barely made contact. Looking back at him once he had pulled away, she smiled tightly and said, "Goodnight, Giles," before turning and using her key on the door to the residents' entrance of the opera house.

It was quiet inside the dormitory, most people still away enjoying a holiday. Annie walked through the wing, keeping her head down, so as not to make eye contact with the few people who were milling about, and swiftly made her way out the door to the main wing of the opera house. She walked directly to Box 5, hesitating only briefly when she came to the door. Once inside, she again felt the sorrow heavy in her heart. This was where she and Erik had said goodbye—where they had kissed and parted, never knowing that it would be their final time. "I never would have let you go, Erik," she whispered to his spirit, "If I knew I would never see you again."

Clutching his sketchbook close to her heart, she took a deep breath and pressed the lever to open the wall. Down and down she went, not thinking, her feet knowing their way by now. Soon she came to the little chamber where she and Erik had spent their last night—making love and dreaming about their future.

She sat down on the shores of the lake and stared into the misty waters. In many ways it felt like it had been just yesterday. She could still feel his arms circling around her, his teeth still tugging at her lips, their bodies still joined in the most intimate way two lovers could unite. His cries of ecstasy still rang in her ears, as well as his whispers of _I love you_ as her eyes grew heavy and she succumbed to sleep, his gentle fingers caressing her cheek.

So many days and nights since then, she had crept down here to fantasize about the years to come. All those dreams of catching him in her arms as he stepped off the train from Monaco—of wearing white as she vowed before God to be his wife—of being heavy with his child, as their other children played at her feet. These were things that hadn't come to pass—would _never_ come to pass. They had slipped through her fingers on the day they said goodbye—and their loss left a hole in her heart that nothing would ever be able to fill.

Annie looked down at the book she still held in her arms. Laying it on her lap, she once again turned the pages, looking at the beautiful images that Erik had drawn of a ballerina full of life, full of joy, and full of love. They were images of _her_ —his dreams of her that had kept him going during their time apart.

"Oh, my Erik," she said out loud, as tears began to fall. "I asked you on the night before you left how I was supposed to live without you. It's been so long and I still don't know. You _were_ my life, my joy and my love. I am so hollow inside without you. And now I know that I will _never_ again be whole.

"But these," she said, gesturing to the pages in the book. " _These_ were your dreams for me. How am I supposed to make these dreams come true when I barely know how to draw breath without you? I will dance for you, Erik," she vowed through her sobs. "I will try to live as you want me to." Closing her eyes, and shaking her head, she added, "But, Erik, I _miss_ you. I will miss you for the rest of my life. You will _always_ own my soul."

When her tears were spent, a bone deep exhaustion spread throughout her body, and pulling herself to her feet, she staggered over to the furs. Placing the sketchbook on the ground beside them, she lay down, wrapping the furs tightly around her body. "Once more in your arms, my love," she murmured, as she drifted off to sleep, imagining herself to be cradled in Erik's warm embrace.

 **AN: Oh, poor Erik. He is in a terrible state. But this girl-this little slave girl who longs for adventure-she might be hope...**

 **And Annie-she might be determined to keep living for Erik's sake-but it's not going to be easy. No, not easy at all...**


	51. Chapter 51

CH 51

"Yasmin!" the slave mistress barked, grabbing her shoulders and physically pulling her out of the line of girls who were heading into the parlor. "Where do you think you are going?"

"I was going to start on tonight's mending, ma'am," Yasmin answered, eyes lowered to the ground.

"Have you forgotten your new duties already, child?" the mistress asked, throwing her arms up in the air. "It is time for you to head to the prisons. Your charge must have his dinner."

"I don't think he eats anything, ma'am," Yasmin responded. And it was true. Yasmin had been tending to the prisoner in the dungeon for a week now, and every tray she brought remained untouched when she arrived with the next one.

"Nonetheless, you must see that he is offered food three times a day," the mistress said, rolling her eyes with her hands on her hips. " _That_ is your duty! Besides," she added as an after thought. "Everyone must eat. Or they die."

"Yes, ma'am," Yasmin answered, "I know."

"So get to the prison and do your job." The mistress commanded, adding in a hearty " _now_ " for emphasis, as she pointed her finger in the direction Yasmin was to go.

"Yes, ma'am!" she said again, this time with a nod as she turned and hurried away from the stern woman.

Dusk had already spread across the sky as Yasmin trudged on toward the forbidding building on the far side of the courtyard, her mind deep in thought. _Everyone must eat,_ the mistress had said. _Or they die._ Yasmin shuddered when she realized that she could not be sure if her prisoner were even still alive. Three times each day, she ventured into that dark room and except for that first afternoon, there had been no movement at all—no sound of weeping or anything else. Every time she entered his cell, she greeted the prisoner, and said a few words to him, but never did he make any reply. Perhaps he had refused the tray so many times that he had actually starved to death. Remembering the mournful weeping she had heard that first night, she wondered if that had been his wish all along?

When she arrived at the prison, she was grateful to see that the other inmates were still in the food hall. She had gotten used to their leering and taunting, knowing that there was no way that they could get to her. Still, she welcomed any time she did not have to face them, and she found herself relaxing just a bit as she picked up her charge's dinner tray—which contained the same food that had been on the lunch tray—which had been identical to the one she had brought for breakfast.

 _Perhaps he is not dead_ , she thought, turning up her nose as she reluctantly made her way to the staircase that led to the dungeon. _Perhaps he is just disgusted by the offerings_. She was still pondering that distinct possibility when she opened the heavy wooden door and was met with the sound of humming.

It was only a quiet sound, barely drifting up from behind the dungeon door to fill the small stairwell. The tune was lovely but melancholy and as she soundlessly descended each of the stone steps, she found that she was both drawn to the source of the bewitching beauty, and repelled by the sorrow it undeniably contained. She had finally reached the bottom step, and was reaching out a trembling hand to open the door, when the melody dissolved into heart wrenching sobs.

"Annie," the mournful voice wailed, before giving over fully to weeping. " _Annie_."

Yasmin's heart constricted as she heard the plaintive cry and she slowly pulled her hand away from the door. Her prisoner was obviously not dead—that much was plain. No, he lived, and breathed— _and_ he had hummed one of the most beautiful melodies she had ever heard. But now, he was weeping again, and much to Yasmin's sorrow, he appeared to be very much in pain.

 _Annie_ , she had heard him call as the sobs overtook him. Who was Annie? Was she his sister? His lover? A woman he had scorned? She put her ear to the door, listening to his lament for a few silent moments, hoping that he would say something more, but all that poured forth from the door was the sound of his grieving. And that had become too sorrowful for Yasmin to bear.

Clearing her throat loudly and making certain to rattle the handle a few times, to give her prisoner fair warning that she was there, Yasmin opened the door. By the time she had entered, the dungeon was silent once again—without even the echo of the distressing sobs lingering in the air. There was no sign of her elusive prisoner, but she knew he was there, watching—a ghost hidden by the shadows.

Her plan had been to simply leave the tray that contained yet another meal that he would not eat. But moved to pity by the anguish she had overheard, she could not help but at least try to reach out and make some contact with this man who was obviously wasting away in misery.

"I heard your song, Mon…Monsieur," she said, trying out the foreign word, knowing that her prisoner originally hailed from France. "It…it was very beautiful," she added, feeling suddenly awkward. "I should like to hear more of it sometime," she continued, not really sure of what she should say.

"I brought you dinner," she started again, hoping this time her words would not be so clumsy. "I know you don't tend to eat much, but I wish you would try. If you do not eat, you will die. And then …," she grasped for a way to finish her statement, aware that death was probably what he was after. "Well, then I would never get to hear any more of your song. And I really did like it."

Disgusted again by her own ineptitude, Yasmin turned to go hanging her head low. But then, remembering the one actual word she had heard spill from the prisoner's mouth, she decided to try one more thing. "I don't think Annie would want you to die either." And then, without waiting for his reply, she scurried out the door, her heart racing in her chest.

She stood for a moment on the other side of the door, back leaning against the heavy wood, wondering if her words had even made sense. She had no idea who this Annie was, or what effect using her name would have on the prisoner. She wondered if she had upset him, or even angered him—and if, at her next visit he would be threatening and dangerous. There must be a reason he was locked in the dungeon—a place reserved for only the shah's most heinous criminals. Had she just made her situation more treacherous?

On the other side of the door, a hushed, low rustle drew Yasmin out of her thoughts. She listened closely to the noise, which was as if something were being dragged along the ground. It took her a moment to realize that it was the sound of a food tray slowly being dragged further into the prisoner's cell.

* * *

"All right ladies," Madame Delacroix tapped her cane, signaling the girls to relax their stances. "That is enough for today. Get some rest this evening. We will resume tomorrow—and the pace," she added, raising an eyebrow, "will not be so light."

A chorus of groans filled the air, most of the ballerinas feeling that the pace of the day had been punishing enough. It was the rehearsal period for the new season, and Madame Delacroix was working them hard, in an effort to reverse the effects of laziness that had set in with some of the girls during their time off. Still, while most of the girls were all too happy to break for dinner, Annie stayed at the barre.

"Aren't you joining us, Antoinette?" Marie asked, as she made her way toward the door.

"No thank you, Marie," Annie replied, with a tight smile. "I'm really not hungry."

"I wish I had your lack of appetite," Nina, one of the younger girls commented, "I'm famished! I could eat a horse!"

"I'll see you back in the room, then," Marie replied with a sigh, as she and the others continued on.

"Not too much longer, Mademoiselle Laramie," Madame Delacroix scolded as she gathered her things. "You must allow your body to rest."

"I will not stay too long, Madame," Annie promised.

"Why do I not believe that?" the ballet mistress asked, before shaking her head and leaving the room.

It would only be a short while longer, Annie told herself, as she curled one arm in front of her and extended the other outward, beginning work on her pas de chat. Only a few extra moments of practice, and she would join the others for dinner. Even if she wasn't hungry, she knew she had to force herself to eat.

Dinner had long since passed, however, when Giles opened the door to the rehearsal room and found her still practicing the series of small, buoyant jumps. She was deep in concentration, her back to him, and though his plan had been to coax her out of the practice room, he could not help but lean against the doorframe to watch for a few moments—silently appreciating the ease with which she executed the bouncy little steps. Landing on the balls of her feet, as surely as any cat, she ended each trio of jumps with an elegant flourish of her outstretched arm, before repeating them in the opposite direction. When she suddenly broke off into a series of jetes that propelled her across the room, Giles could not help but catch his breath at her absolute grace and beauty.

The sound of his gasp alerting her to his presence, Annie landed and glanced over at the doorway. When Giles realized he had been caught, he flashed a wide smile and clapped heartily as she walked over to him, using the back of her hand to wipe the sweat from her brow.

"Giles," she asked him, slightly out of breath. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Unfortunately," he smirked, "I had no doubt that I would find you here."

"I was just practicing, Giles," she informed him. "We have a new season for which to prepare and I…"

"Practiced all day alongside the rest of the ballerinas," Giles interjected.

"Yes, but a little _extra_ practice never hurts!" Annie asserted.

"I imagine Madame Delacroix wishes her less talented dancers felt the same way," he commented with a smirk. " _You_ , however, are exquisite and you know it. Your dancing will bring down the house—as usual."

Annie smiled. "Giles, as always, you are too kind."

"I am only speaking the truth, Antoinette," he answered, looking at her fondly. "I think you have done quite enough practicing for the day."

"Well, I was just about to stop anyway, and join the other girls for dinner," she said

"Too late, Antoinette," Giles informed her. "Dinner service is over and most of the ballerinas are currently heeding Madame Delacroix's advice and enjoying a bit of relaxation."

"Oh," Annie said, a bit surprised. "Well, I wasn't really hungry anyway."

"Well, that is unfortunate indeed," Giles responded, "because I took it upon myself to buy you a sandwich from one of the carts on the square." He held up a small paper bag, and with a crooked smile added, "It's probably tastier than anything they were serving in the dining hall anyway."

Annie gave a forced chuckle. "Thank you, Giles," she said, taking the bag from him. "But you didn't have to do this."

"I know, but I wanted to make sure you had something to eat," he smiled. "I know you often go without dinner."

Annie just smiled and looked down, saying nothing to refute his claim, since she knew it was true.

"So come on," Giles urged kindly, seating himself on the floor of the rehearsal room, and gesturing for her to do the same. "Sit and eat."

Annie looked at him, horrified. "Oh no, Giles. Not here," she said, her face turning slightly pale. "Madame Delacroix has a strict rule against food in the rehearsal room."

"Rules were made to be broken, Mademoiselle," Giles said, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Besides, I outrank her."

"Giles…" Annie snickered a little, despite herself. "I really shouldn't."

"Yes, Antoinette," Giles patted the floor next to him, urging her once again to sit, "You should. You need to eat."

Annie shook her head ruefully at her stubborn friend, but sat herself down beside him none-the-less. "I am going to blame you, Giles, if Madame finds any crumbs on the floor," she told him in no uncertain terms, opening up the paper bag she held in her hands.

"I will simply pass the blame on to Monsieur Moncharmin," Giles retorted without missing a beat. "It would be fun to watch him squirm."

Annie could not help but chuckle a bit as she took a bite from her sandwich, and Giles smiled at the sound. "It is good to see you smiling, Antoinette," he said warmly.

"Thank you, Giles," Annie returned simply. "The sandwich is delicious."

Annie ate her light meal as she and Giles chattered about the business of the opera house.

"I am looking forward to seeing you lead the company in dance once again, Antoinette," Giles told her at one point.

"Madame Delacroix has made no intimations that I would be granted the lead again," Annie responded.

"Oh Antoinette," Giles countered, "Madame Delacroix is no fool. She is well aware of your talent. You are exquisite on the stage, and I have no doubt that you will be prima ballerina once more."

Annie's cheeks blushed with his praise, "Thank you, Giles. You must see, then, why the extra practice time is so important to me." Then, shifting the focus off of herself for a moment, she asked, "So has the Lady Sophia forgiven you for breaking your plans with her?"

"Um," Giles cleared his throat, looking a bit awkward for a moment, "things with Sophia are as to be expected. She…will come around."

They were quiet for a moment then, a comfortable silence descending upon them until Giles asked, "How _are_ you, Antoinette? Really?"

Annie look directly into Giles's clear blue eyes and saw them clouded with concern. "I…I am fine, Giles. I am really enjoying the new routines, and I feel invigorated at the thought of starting a new season…."

"No, Antoinette," he interjected, reaching over and taking one of her hands gently in his. "That is not what I was asking. How are you coming to terms with Erik's death?"

Annie visibly flinched at Giles words, the mention of Erik's name hitting her like a physical blow. "I…I have my good moments."

"And your bad ones?" he asked, his eyes pleading with her to talk to him.

"Yes," she said in a hollow voice. "And my bad ones. I try to stay focused on my work," she said, steeling herself once again, to remain strong. "It…helps."

"I'm glad it helps, Antoinette," Giles said, "but you cannot focus on your work to the extent that you neglect to take care of yourself."

"At least when I dance, I can feel the blood pumping through my veins, and the breath crashing into my lungs," Annie snapped in irritation. "For a just a short while I feel alive again, and I can almost forget the pain," Annie added, burying her head in her hands. "Almost."

"Antoinette," Giles said softly, reaching over and placing a hand on her shoulder. "You are not alone. Let me help you."

Annie looked over at Giles, and saw nothing but sincerity in his eyes. "I don't know how, Giles. I just don't know how you can help me," she said, with complete honesty. For unless he could somehow bring Erik back, there was no help to be had.

"Well, for starters," he said, putting aside the embarrassment that stung him at her words. "You are going to join me tomorrow for a midday walk into town."

"I am not sure Madame Delacroix will like that," Annie resisted, shaking her head.

"On the contrary," Giles countered, "Madame knows you need to take care of yourself too. And she always gives her ballerinas a lunch break. Since you never take yours, you have plenty of time for a walk."

Annie rolled her eyes at Giles's logic. "I really need to practice, Giles."

"No, Antoinette," Giles told her firmly. "You really need _this—_ a break—a change of scenery. And I am not taking no for an answer."

"Well," Annie sighed, "If my manager demands…"

"Now, you're talking!" Giles said with a laugh. Annie's smirk as she rolled her eyes and shook her head gave him all the reward he sought.

* * *

It was customary for Yasmin to collect the prisoner's untouched food trays when the time came for the next meal, but try as she might, she could not get the sound of his humming out of her mind. The melody haunted her as sure as any ghost, and when she had completed her other chores for the evening, she strangely found herself wishing to go back. Now that she was sure he was actually alive, there were some things she felt she really must bring him.

So, collecting her supplies, she slipped out of the slave quarters and once again made her way to the prison, using the key that had been given her so she would not have to disturb the guards. She gave a silent prayer of thanks to Allah, when she realized that the other prisoners had mostly fallen asleep. Her charge might be sleeping as well, she thought—but it really did not matter. She did not have to wake him to leave what she brought.

She did not hear any humming when she entered the staircase—and neither when she opened the door to the dungeon. But approaching the cell, she shone her lantern on the spot where she left the tray and much to her surprise, she found that some of the food was gone. It was not finished, but for the first time since she had been bringing him his trays, a portion of the contents had definitely been eaten. She was so surprised that she forgot all about her decision not to wake him.

"You ate!" she exclaimed happily. "I knew you could do it! I hope you will eat some more tomorrow."

Instantly feeling a bit foolish, that she had showed such enthusiasm because he performed a basic human function, she changed the subject. "I…thought you might want to clean yourself up a little bit—not that you have to if you do not want to. But I…" she placed the bucket of water she had been carrying down right by the side of his cell, "brought you some soap and water. And, a change of clothes," she added, placing the bundle of clothing down next to the bucket. "And, I thought you might like a light," she set down an extra lantern with the other supplies, "so you can see what you're doing."

As usual, Yasmin was met with silence—which, though she expected it, was still a bit of a disappointment. "Well," she said awkwardly, not really knowing what else to say. "I suppose I will be going. I will return in the morning—with your breakfast."

Walking back to the door, she placed her fingers on the handle before turning back toward the cell and adding, "Goodnight, Monsieur."

 **AN: Well...it seems that both Erik and Annie are doing a bit better with their appetites. Both of them are lucky to have caretakers who simply won't give up on them...**


	52. Chapter 52

CH 51

Yasmin held her head high down the long corridor of prisoners, as they jeered and called out to her. She had learned that the only way to deal with their taunts and jibes was to ignore them—as reacting to them in any way had only made them worse. They did not need to know that the sound of their voices made a pit form in her stomach, or bile rise in her throat. She refused to let them see the fear that was certain to show in her eyes. She kept her face trained straight ahead, her mind focused on her own prisoner, whose tray she was carrying carefully before her. At least she knew he would not call out such vulgar words in her presence. It was one of the benefits of him being silent.

Still as she stood there before the foreboding door that would lead inside the dungeon, she felt a bit of apprehension creeping up her spine. He had eaten a bit of the food she had brought him last night, which was a departure from his usual behavior. Would anything else be different about him today? Would he thank her for the food? Would he respond to her words? Or would it be more of the same silence in the dark? As her hand lay flat against the heavy wood, beginning to push, she wasn't sure which she wished for more.

Inside, the dungeon was exactly the same as it had always been before—ominous and silent, with the only light spilling forth from her own small lantern.

"Hello," she said, trying to make her voice sound cheerful. "Good morning. It is time for your breakfast. I hope you're hungry." She knelt down to place the tray on the ground, sliding it partially inside his cell. While on the ground, she reached her lantern out toward where she had placed the bucket. She saw that the soap and water had indeed been used, the accompanying rag having been rung out and hung on the side of the pail to dry. The fresh clothing was gone as well—the old ones rolled up into a heap, and dumped inside the bucket.

"Oh, I see you've cleaned up a little and changed your clothes," she commented, a smile spreading over her lips, since it was obvious that her gesture had been appreciated. "That must make you more comfortable." When she was once again met with nothing but silence, Yasmin chuckled nervously to her self. "Or," she muttered almost under her breath, "perhaps not." Still shining her lantern in the direction of the supplies she had left, she noticed that the candle and matches were still untouched.

"Did you not see the candle?" she asked, wanting to make sure her prisoner had been aware of all she had offered. "Do you not wish for a bit of light?"

"Are you afraid of the dark?" came the whispery voice, a disembodied question from deep in the darkness, and immediately, Yasmin _was_ afraid. She was terrified, in fact, of the first words spoken to her by her mysterious prisoner. Yet, she refused to let him see it.

"N…not if I know what lies within," she replied, her tone quavering just a bit, belying her desire to appear confident.

" _Do_ you know what's in the dark?" breathed the voice once again.

Swallowing hard, to maintain her courage, she said, "I know that _you_ are in the dark, sir."

"That is why," came the cryptic reply, "I prefer the dark—creatures like me are not fit for the light."

There was much disdain in his response, but Yasmin could tell that it was mockery aimed at himself—a sort of self contempt that laced his words with bitterness. Made bolder by what she considered his pitiable state, she asked, "What could you possibly mean by that? The light does not choose on whom it will shine."

Without a sound, the shadows shifted, and the almost skeletal form of a man stepped forth. He was wearing the clothes she had brought him, though they were both too big and too small at the same time. The tunic hung loosely at his shoulders, and the pants barely reached down to his mid calf. She supposed she should not be surprised that he was so thin—he had barely eaten any food in the past few weeks. But she had never seen a man quite so tall—nor one so emaciated who still drew breath.

Lifting her head slowly, to meet his eyes, she was startled by what she saw. The left side of his face seemed tired and worn—and extremely gaunt, probably due to his refusal to eat. But though he worked to obscure it, Yasmin could tell that there was something terribly wrong with the right side.

He held his hand against it—long, bony fingers splayed to cover over his entire cheek and forehead, to where the tangled mess of matted hair began to grow. But he couldn't quite cover the misshapen, mottled lower lip, or the fact that his palm lay flat in the place where there should have been the protrusion of his nose.

And his fingers didn't hide the unusual pair of golden, fiery eyes that blazed back at her from out of the shadows, pinning her gaze and daring her to flinch—which, despite herself, she did.

Yasmin gasped, taking a step back as his stare bore into her. Her left shoulder drew forward and she closed her eyes, turning her head away, as if shielding herself from a blow.

It was then that the darkness exploded with a loud, derisive laughter. "That is why you _should_ be afraid of the dark, little girl," her prisoner said, his tone filled with scorn. "For in the dark there be monsters."

The laughter continued, growing louder and more robust, prickling Yasmin's pride. Finally, raising her head and squaring her shoulders, she looked her prisoner in the eyes as she said, "I am not so very little!"

Instantly, the laughter ceased, and the prisoner's golden eyes widened—his mouth opening a bit in surprise—as his arrogant stance seeming to falter. Yasmin had no idea what she had done to affect him this way, but she knew she needed to strike while the proverbial iron was hot.

"And I don't think _you're_ a monster. Monsters don't hum beautiful songs—and monsters don't starve themselves—no, monsters eat everything in sight." Her prisoner remained silent and did not retreat back into the shadows. Feeling bold, Yasmin continued. "And monsters don't cry. Or call out the name _Annie_ in the night."

For the first time, her prisoner's eyes dropped, falling to stare at the dirt floor in front of him. His breathing had become erratic and his cadaverous form seemed only moments away from crumbling. He almost dropped his hand down from his face, and Yasmin braced herself so that she would be able to maintain her show of bravery, no matter what horror she saw. At the last moment, however, he caught himself, leaving his hand in place and looking up at her.

"Bring me a mask," he demanded, though there was pleading in his eyes. "Or something with which I can cover my hideous face." And after a long moment of silence had stretched out between them, he added, "Please."

"I will bring it," she said, nodding. "The next time I come. I promise." But then, placing her hands on her hips and holding her head high, she added, "But I shall only _give_ it to you if you have eaten your breakfast!"

* * *

"Giles, this is truly ridiculous!" Annie protested, as they set out into the sunshine on the walk he had insisted she take with him the evening before. "There is no way I will be back and changed in time for the afternoon rehearsal session. Madame Delacroix will have my head!"

"Madame Delacroix is not expecting you back this afternoon," Giles informed her calmly.

"What?" Annie asked in shock, halting her pace and staring at her friend until he explained.

"Madame agreed that you have been working too hard," he told her simply, a smile on his face. "So I arranged for you to have the afternoon off."

"That does not sound at all like Madame Delacroix!' Annie retorted. "What did you have to promise her to get me the entire afternoon off?"

Giles's face blanched visibly and he cleared his throat before answering, "I think it's best we do not discuss that. I do not want to lose my appetite."

Rolling her eyes in frustration, Annie cried, "Giles Giry, you told me it would just be a lunch time stroll!"

"Would you have agreed if I had informed you I would be taking you for a picnic in the park?" he asked, his eyebrows raised in amusement.

"Absolutely not!" Annie exclaimed.

"That is why I told you it would just be a lunchtime stroll." Giles smiled.

Sighing heavily, Annie turned to look ahead. "You are so irritating, Giles," she muttered through clenched teeth, as they began to walk, once again, toward the park.

Holding back a laugh, Giles quipped, "But you must admit, it is part of my charm."

Annie glared at him before turning her attentions forward once again.

Before long, they were seated beneath a large oak tree in the park. Giles had already arranged to have a large picnic basket delivered there, a red-and-white checkered blanket spread out over the grass.

" _Bon appétit,_ Antoinette!" he declared, eagerly throwing open the lid of the basket, to reveal a veritable feast inside, consisting of fresh fruit, meats and cheeses, and a crispy baguette. Using a corkscrew on a bottle of red wine to quench their thirsts, he urged, "Please, eat," gesturing for her to make herself a plate.

Still somewhat irritated at her well-meaning friend, but quickly being won over by his kindness, Annie took a plate and placed some grapes and cheese upon it. When Giles had poured them each a glass of wine, he handed one to her and raised his own, saying, " _tchin,"_ before taking a sip.

Annie took a drink as well, then placed her glass on the blanket and popped a grape into her mouth.

"Is the wine to your liking, Antoinette?" Giles asked her, tearing off a hunk of the baguette.

"It is delicious, Giles," Annie responded. "But all of this is just so unnecessary," she protested.

"Oh, I disagree!" Giles shook his head, taking another sip of wine. "We both need to eat, and what could be a better place to dine than out here under the crisp blue sky and the bright sunshine?"

"It _is_ a beautiful day," Annie was forced to admit, looking up and watching the birds soar through the sky. She recalled the times she and Erik had enjoyed the outdoors together, and felt a niggling bit of guilt tugging at her heart for being out in the sun with another man. But she forced herself to shove it aside. It was a lovely afternoon, and a delicious lunch. And the man she was with was only Giles—her friend since the beginning, who was well aware that her heart would always belong to Erik.

"So tell me," she asked, deciding that for once, she would be the one to make conversation. "How did you come to be a manager at the Opera House?"

"I got kicked out of the orchestra," he retorted without missing a beat.

Annie laughed at his unexpected remark, and pressed, "Seriously, Giles. I want to know."

Giving Annie another of his winning smiles, he answered, "Well, I really did have a great appreciation of music from a very young age. But as much as I enjoyed it, I was never any good at it. I tried to pick up the oboe as a child, and I could never make it sound like anything but a honking duck."

"Ducks don't honk," Annie snickered, popping a bit of cheese into her mouth. "Geese do."

"You see," Giles said, with a grin. "I told you it was bad!" They both laughed for a moment, and Giles continued, "Still, I could not get enough of hearing good musicians make magic out of the same instruments from which I could only draw noise. I knew I wanted to spend my life surrounded by the arts, so I decided to pursue the business side of things. I studied finance and business management at University, and when the Garnier was set to open, I knew the finance manager was the job for me. Thankfully Richard and Moncharmin agreed."

"You are very good at what you do, Giles," Annie told him sweetly. "The success the opera house is enjoying is in no small way due to your proper management of its funds."

"Well, thank you, Antoinette," Giles smiled, "but I like to think it is due far more to the talent we employ. Only the best musicians, singers or dancers are fit for our stage. And that is why you are perfect as our Prima Ballerina."

Annie looked down and reached for her glass as she felt her cheeks redden a bit at his praise. Giles was always so supportive—so flattering—and sometimes Annie felt that simply saying thank you was not quite enough. But she didn't have long to worry about coming up with a response, because as she was swallowing her wine, she heard a young voice say, "Excuse me, but did I hear that you are a dancer?"

Annie looked over to find a young boy, of only about 11, with neatly trimmed blond hair and dark blue eyes standing before them.

"She is, young man," Giles answered, before Annie could say a word. "And an exquisite one at that!"

"Well, maybe you could help my friend over there," he said, gesturing toward a young girl standing a little bit away, wearing a blue dress and hiding beneath a mane of mahogany curls that shone with a red glint in the sunlight. "There is going to be a dance at my father's house and she is terribly awkward—always tripping over her feet and getting her left confused with her right. I thought maybe lessons from a real dancer might teach her a thing or two."

Annie looked at the little boy in surprise as the nonchalant way he insulted his friend. Glancing over to the girl with sympathy, she nodded

"Lotte!" the boy called to his friend. "Come on!"

The little girl, probably a year or so younger, slowly made her way over. She glanced up at Annie—mortification in her bright blue eyes. It was clear she wished her friend hadn't done this.

"Hello, Lotte," Annie said.

"It's Christine, Ma'am," The girl answered, her eyes downcast, as if she were too shy to meet Annie's eyes. "My real name's Christine."

"Well then," Annie amended, her tone growing even softer in compassion for the shy girl, "is it your wish to learn how to dance?"

"Yes miss," the girl said in a mousy voice with a foreign accent, looking down again before making her answer. "The last time I went to one of these dances, I stepped all over Raoul's feet. I don't want that to happen again."

"Neither do I!" the boy remarked, shuddering a bit at an apparently bad memory.

Annie looked over to Giles and rolled her eyes at the young boy's rudeness toward his friend. But, feeling badly for the girl's plight, she stood and said, "All right, then. I shall teach you a simple waltz."

Tentatively, the girl looked up at Annie and smiled, nodding her head in gratitude.  
"Ok, a waltz has three beats, so all you have to do is think in terms of 1-2-3. Your partner will lead, so you need to simply follow. You start on your right foot, and take a step back," she stood next to the girl and demonstrated with her own body, the steps the girl would have to take. "Then with your left foot, take a step to the side. Then, bring your right foot over to close the distance. Understand? Back, side, close. Just like that. Now you try."

Giles watched with a smile as the little girl successfully completed the three steps Annie taught her. She appeared to be a natural teacher—another talent of Annie's that Giles could not help but admire.

"Alright," Annie continued. "Now that you have that down, you just have to do the reverse. Forward with your left foot, to the side with your right, and then close the distance between them. Like this." Once again, Annie demonstrated, and the little girl followed, a bright smile spreading over her features. "Look, Raoul, I'm doing it!" she cried out enthusiastically, as she looked toward her friend, who was leaning against the tree with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Now let's see if you can manage not to step on my toes!" he commented, not looking at all sure that she would be successful. He walked over to her and roughly placed his hand on her back, taking her hand in his. He immediately began to lead the waltz in a pace that was clumsy and far too fast, leaving Annie's little pupil flustered and confused. When he cried out, "ouch! Christine that was my toe!" the girl pulled away from him and her face reddened in embarrassment.

Annie was dismayed by the behavior she saw in the youth, quite convinced at this point, that he was a brute. But before she could admonish him, Giles stepped forward and said, "Raoul, it is important to be the right kind of partner when dancing the waltz. You are the man, and will therefore take the lead. But, you must do just that- _lead_ your partner. Do not _drag_ her around the dance floor."

Straightening himself into his best posture, Giles extended his arm forward, saying, "The first thing you must do is call your partner to the dance. Do not demand! Simply invite."

Smiling at Annie, Giles gestured for her to take his hand. Understanding what he was trying to do, Annie came forward, and clasped her hand together with his.

"The next thing you do," he said, as they demonstrated the moves to their young students, "is to ever so gently place your other hand on her upper back as she delicately and gracefully lays her palm on your shoulder. And then," he continued, gazing at Annie, "Making sure you are always looking your partner directly in the eye, you _smile_ , as you begin the dance." With a sweet grin, that Annie could not help but return, Giles began to move in the gentle 1-2-3 motion of the waltz. They continued to dance—Giles's eyes never leaving Annie's even as he called out, "Ok, now you try."

The children watched Annie and Giles a moment, awed by their elegant movements, before Raoul looked toward Christine and mimicked Gile's graceful invitation. In no time at all, the four of them were circling the grass in identical 1-2-3 movements, Giles humming a pitchy tune to keep them in rhythm.

"Christine," they heard a man's voice call from a short distance away. "Raoul!"

"We have to go," the boy informed them, halting his dance with the little girl. "But thank you for your help."

"Yes," the girl said, grinning ear to ear, a rosy flush covering her cheeks. "Thank you," she added as the two scurried off hand in hand.

Annie and Giles remained in waltz position and smiled as they watched them go, chuckling a bit to themselves.

"Well, that was certainly unexpected," Annie said.

"That it was," Giles agreed. "I think we taught that boy a thing or two about being a good dance partner."

"I hope he remembers," Annie agreed.

"Oh," Giles said, still watching as the children disappeared, "I'm sure it is a lesson that will need to be repeated time and time again. Young boys can be dreadfully irritating, you know."

"Hmm," Annie commented, catching Giles's eye. "Just like grown men?"

"Exactly!" Giles answered, a twinkle in his eye as he once again began to hum and lead them in the motions of the dance.

"Giles," Annie said with a giggle. "Your dancing is wonderful, but your humming is dreadfully out of tune."

"Do you see what I mean now about my lack of musical abilities?" he asked, with a good-natured grin.

"Absolutely! Now leave the music to me," she demanded as she took over the humming and moved alongside Giles in the dance.

 **AN: Awwww, Annie and Giles had a nice, lighthearted afternoon—and little do they know how important these two little dance students will be in the distant future…**

 **But Erik—oh, so cryptic with his "Are you afraid of the dark?" comment! I don't think he's going to scare little Yasmin away that easily, though… She seems to be made of stronger stuff than that.**


	53. Chapter 53

**AN: HELLO READERS!**

 **Sorry it has been awhile since my last post. Real life has gotten insanely busy-and it looks as if it will continue to be that way for at least the next week. But I just wanted to post this next chapter, so you can see what all our characters have been up to.**

CH 53

 _"_ _I am not so very little!"_ The words played over and over in his mind—words he had heard so many times in the past but this time spoken by a different voice. The girl who came to tend to him—she had recited those very words just this morning, trying to show a bit of bravery in the face of his admitted attempt to frighten her.

It had taken a very short time to get the guards to give up on him. He had simply rejected the contents of his tray, and they were content to let him. Soon, they considered him to be nothing more than a waste of their time, since, in their eyes, he could no longer possibly be any kind of threat. They assumed he was sluggish and frail from starving himself—and only a step away from death's door. He was too much of a weakling to be worth their effort. That was why they had transferred his care over to the girl.

Erik actually wished he were as weak as they assumed, but his traitorous body had never had much need for food, and it stubbornly held onto a life for which he had no use. Of course, he wanted nothing more than to die. Existing in this hellhole, so far away from his life's only comfort, was a torture greater than any he had known at the hands of the gypsies. Most of the torment they had heaped upon him had come before he'd known that there was light and beauty in the world—that there was love so strong, so pure and so very passionate—and only for him. That love—that light—had smoothed his rougher edges—illuminated his darkness. But the glow had begun to fade in the distance—the embers' heat too cool to warm him from so far away. Erik had been left to wallow in the cold. But then he had heard those words.

 _I am not so very little_ his caretaker had said, and he suddenly saw Annie with a flush in her cheeks, and fire in her eyes, her chin turned up at him in irritation. _I am not so very little_ —and he could hear her shrieking laughter, as he lifted her high in the air and swung her around in circles. _I am not so very little_ —and he could feel her enveloped in his arms, as he captured those very words with his lips, showing her in no uncertain terms that there had never been anything little about his love and desire for her.

He had wanted to escape the pain—the loneliness—wishing that his body would simply give up its ghost and let him expire. But when the slave girl spoke those words to him, he remembered his life—and his only _true_ reason for living—his beautiful rose—his Annie.

"Hello," he heard the tentative call, as the door to the dungeon started to open. It appeared his not so little keeper was back to check on him.

She bravely entered the room, yet another tray of food held out before her. She immediately knelt on the floor by the narrow opening under the bars to check on the status of his previous meal, and by the soft light from her lantern, Erik could see a smile spread over her face.

"You ate your breakfast!" she exclaimed.

He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at the youthful exuberance in her voice. "I did," Erik said quietly, from his place in the darkness. "Did you also hold to your end of the bargain?"

The smile faded slightly from the girl's face, as she reached inside the folds of her skirts and fiddled around for something. "I am not much of a seamstress, sir," she informed him. "But I brought you a mask." She held up a piece of light colored linen in front of the bars. "Of sorts." Then, without being asked, the girl stuck her hands through the bars, and tossed the mask into the darkness.

Erik caught the fabric with ease, his keen vision having no trouble seeing it in the dark. Carefully unfolding the small garment, he found that it had been cut to cover only half of his face—and it was long enough to easily go from his forehead to his lips. The eyehole was a bit crudely fashioned and the stitching along the edges was crooked. It was nothing like the handmade masks that Annie had lovingly made for him. Still, it would serve its purpose, and Erik busied himself with tying it quickly behind his head, feeling at once more secure when it was in position.

"I…is it alright?" the girl asked in a timid voice.

"Yes," Erik answered simply. "Thank you."

The girl stood there quietly, as if she expected something more. After the silence had stretched on long enough, she asked, "What do I call you, Mon…monsieur?"

"Why must you call me anything?" he asked sardonically, studying her face from his concealed vantage point.

"Well," she began uncertainly. "It is my responsibility to take care of you—and now that you are eating, it is doubtful that you will die…"

"Sorry for the inconvenience," Erik said dryly.

"No, monsieur," the girl exclaimed, flustered. "That is not what I meant. I just would like to know who it is I meet each day when I come down here."

"I am a criminal," Erik returned, "so dangerous that I must remain locked in a cage. Is that not all you need to know?"

Taking a deep breath, the girl replied. "I…I would like to also know your name."

Erik had to admit, he had not expected the girl to stand her ground. She was obviously shaken, and he thought he saw her hand trembling just a bit—but she had not crumbled or given up on her demand. She remained firm and did not flinch away from his vexing words.

"My name is Erik," he said, finally giving in to her request.

"Thank you, Erik," the girl said, her shoulders relaxing just a bit. "My name is Yasmin."

"Yasmin," he repeated slowly.

"Yes," she nodded, shivering slightly at the silvery sound of her name on his lips. His voice was like none she had ever heard before. It was beautiful, to be sure—but dark, and cloaked with mystery. She found herself a little anxious to be conversing with him when he was still hidden in the dark.

"Monsieur Erik," she asked.

"Yes, Mademoiselle Yasmin?" he answered, affording her the same respect he would a young French maiden.

"Now that…" she looked down, flustered again at the sound of that voice. She could feel those strange golden eyes boring into her, even if she could not see them. And it was very disconcerting. "Now that you have a mask, must you remain hidden in the shadows?"

"I do not have much choice, Yasmin," he retorted, rolling his eyes. "I'm in a cage."

"You could come into the light," she countered. "Into the light of my lantern—so that I could see you."

"Why ever would you want to see me, Yasmin?" he asked her incredulously, wondering why this girl demanded so much of him.

"Well," she swallowed hard. "If you are to be my charge, I must make certain that you are in good health. I cannot know that if I do not see you."

Silently, Erik stepped forth into the small pool of light from the girl's small lantern. His long lanky form, as well as the shadows cast by the soft glow, made him an intimidating sight, even with the aid of his mask. Yasmin found that she had to look away.

Erik smirked while admonishing her, "Be careful what you wish for, little girl."

Yasmin's head immediately shot up, as if to argue, but Erik held up his hand to stop her. "Pardon me," he said, wrestling with a smile. She was so much like Annie as a child! "I know. You are _not_ so very little."

Yasmin looked at the prisoner Erik with narrowed eyes, and thought she could almost detect the exposed side of his mouth rise into a grin. "That's right!" she nodded, her voice still a bit tremulous as she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin in a show of strength.

"So, here I am, Mademoiselle Yasmin," Erik said, "Does your prisoner meet with your approval?"

"You…" she nodded. "You look fine. A bit thin, but that is because you hadn't been eating. Which you will be doing from now on," she added, arms crossed in front of her.

"Shall I?" he asked, still fighting with the first bit of true amusement he had felt since arriving in Persia.

"Yes, you will," she informed him.

"I see," Erik nodded, again thinking this girl must be his beloved's kindred spirit. The similarities would earn her much cooperation from him.

"So," Yasmin asked, not exactly certain what to do now that she had her prisoner standing before her. "Who is Annie?"

The slight signs of amusement left Erik's face, and a flash of anger shone in his golden eyes. "Do you truly think that a piece of cloth has bought you such a great return?" he spat. "What gives you the right to speak her name?"

"I…" Yasmin's tough demeanor faltered as she saw Erik's entire countenance change, the mask making his face seem suddenly menacing and dangerous. "I meant no disrespect, Erik. It is just that I heard you calling her name…"

"She was my reason for living," he said wistfully, the eyes that had just been so angry taking on a look of great sorrow. "My heart. My _soul_."

" _Was_?" Yasmin questioned, feeling sorry that she had brought up the name that obviously brought him much pain, but still wishing to know the truth. "Why do you say _was_ , Erik?"

Erik silently contemplated why he had used the word _was_. Annie remained his reason for living. She still held complete dominion over him—both heart and soul. But he was locked in a Persian prison, where he knew he would stay until he either wasted away or the shah decided to kill him. Even if he _could_ escape, how could he ever return to her? He was a murderer—a torturer. He had committed heinous crimes. How could he touch her with hands stained by blood? How could she ever love him now?

"Is she dead?" Yasmin pressed, her youthful curiosity demanding to be sated.

"She is but a dream," Erik said sadly, his head falling low to his chest. "A fleeting memory of days when this monster was yet a man." And without another word, Erik turned from her and retreated back into the darkness.

Yasmin watched him go, and sensing his sorrow, did not protest. "Please eat your lunch, Erik," she called out after him. "I will be back later." And quietly, she walked out of the room.

* * *

"Wonderful news, Ladies!" Madame Delacroix announced, leading Giles, who was carrying a large box, into the rehearsal room, as the dancers stretched their legs at the barre. "Our generous manager, has seen fit to buy us all new tutus." Reaching over she threw open the lid of the box in Giles's arms, and tufts of light blue tulle immediately started poking out.

Squeals of surprised delight filled the room as Giles bent to put the box down on the floor in front of him. He saw Annie turn and look over her shoulder to catch his eye. When she raised a questioning brow at him, he returned a sheepish smile.

"But I thought you said new tutus were out of the question!" Nina asked.

"That ours were in perfectly good repair," added a young ballerina named Mimi.

"Oh, I love them!" shrieked a girl named Vivienne. "They're blue!"

"I knew you all would be surprised," Madame began with a smile, gesturing toward Giles, "But Monsieur Giry—in his wisdom—agreed that a set of blue tutus would complement the white and pink ones we already have rather nicely. It hardly even took much convincing!" Madame stated, turning her face to Giles to give him the opportunity to speak.

"That is absolutely correct, Madame Delacroix," he told the ballerinas with a charming grin. "I am certain all of you ladies will look beautiful in blue."

A chorus of "thank yous" and delighted squeals rose up from the other girls, and Giles smiled and told them all they were welcome while his eyes still wandered to where Annie leaned against the barre. When she smirked at him from across the room, he shrugged his shoulders in defeat. Now she knew how he had arranged her afternoon off all those weeks ago.

Chuckling to herself quietly, she turned back to her exercises and Giles knew it had been worth it. That day in the park had brought a flush to Annie's cheeks and a spring to her step, and for even one of her lovely smiles Giles would have purchased a rainbow's array of tutus. There was no sight more beautiful, in his opinion, than Annie when she was happy—and knowing how much sadness she still felt deep in her heart, Giles had taken it upon himself to bring her as many moments of joy as he possibly could. If it meant being blackmailed into re-outfitting a ballet corps that was already richly appointed, then so be it. The Garnier could afford it.

He knew she would say thank you later—since they had grown accustomed to taking their noon meal together on one of the benches outside the opera house. Still, as he received the other girls' shows of gratitude, he could not help but glance past them to watch Annie's elegant arms extend out to touch her toes, her back curving gracefully over the length of her leg. Her long black hair was gathered at the top of her head in a ballerina's customary tight bun, but little wisps of curl had eked their way out of the elastic to graze the nape of her neck, a few strands falling down into her eyes as well. He felt an almost undeniable urge to go brush the curls away from her face, but then Madame called the girls to order.

"Monsieur," she addressed him, "we are about to start rehearsal."

"Wonderful," Giles said, not moving from his spot. "I believe I shall stay and watch," he informed her, unable to pull himself away, "—at least for a little while."

"Be our guest, Monsieur," Madame Delacroix retorted with a shrug, by now familiar with Giles Giry's inordinate interest in the ballet. "As long as you stay out of the way." She added, grumbling as she got her girls in line and began to run through the choreography.

Giles leaned against the wall as he watched the new dance routine take shape. Truly, the Corps du Ballet deserved the reputation they had earned of being the premier dance company in the country—and perhaps all of Western Europe. Even in the early days of rehearsal for the new opera, they were well synchronized and seemed to move as one entity of style and grace. Of course, Madame Delacroix found things to criticize, but it was her job to do so, in an effort to make the dance even better.

Annie started the routine in the center of the long line of girls, dancing in unison with their moves. Before long, however, she stepped a bit out to the front, and her lead dance began. Delicate steps on pointe were following by dizzying twirls and breathtaking leaps across the floor. She was focused on the dance, but every now and then, she would catch Giles's eye and give him a little smile, making his heart skip a beat.

Giles knew that right now her heart still belonged to Erik, and that it would be a very long time before she could put the loss of her fiancé behind her. Still, he could not deny the feelings that Antoinette Laramie inspired within him. He had tried to suppress his desire, knowing all along that she belonged to another man. But it was no use. The most fulfilling moments of his day were ones spent with her—just talking as they walked down the hall, sharing a meal on the bench, or even now, just watching as she rehearsed for the dance. When they were apart, thoughts of her plagued his every moment, and he found that he dreamt of her when he closed his eyes at night. In those dreams she smiled up at him, her eyes shining, and when he bent low to kiss her, she enthusiastically kissed him back.

Giles knew that he was in trouble and that he should try to pull himself together. She had just been through a terrible trauma, which had reshaped every expectation she'd had about her future. Still, he could not help it. He was falling helplessly, hopelessly in love with Annie. And one day, he prayed, she might even find it within herself to love him back. He knew it would take time—and he knew there was a great chance that it would never happen—but Giles was willing to be patient. Antoinette Laramie was a woman worth waiting for.

Giles found himself so absorbed in arabesques, pirouettes and sissonnes that before he knew it, the morning had passed, and Madame Delacroix had dismissed the ballerinas for lunch. The girls began to disperse, chattering amongst themselves, a few looking in his direction and chuckling. Giles stood against the wall, smiling politely to all who met his eye, until, at last, Annie stood before him, a smirk on her face.

"Do you have an actual job around here, Monsieur Giry?" she asked him jokingly, dabbing her face with a towel. "Or are you paid to stand around and watch rehearsals all day?"

"I was checking on the tutu inventory," he retorted dryly, never missing a beat. "—in case Madame asks for purple ones next."

Annie laughed at Giles's good humor, saying, "Monsieur Giry, you are always ready with a line!"

"And are _you_ ready for lunch, Mademoiselle Laramie?" he asked, extending his arm.

"Indeed," she said, placing her hand on his upper arm and following him out of the rehearsal room.

It was a bright, sunny day and the birds were chirping as Giles and Annie took the first bites of their _sandwiches jambon-fromage_.

"It is such a beautiful day, Antoinette," Giles said, glancing over at Annie as she chewed.

"Why do you think it is beautiful?" she asked him with a smile.

"Well," he answered, "the breeze is warm and the sun is shining so brightly."

"Indeed it is," she giggled. "It makes you look like Apollo himself, with all your blonde curls glowing in its rays!"

Giles laughed despite himself at the amusement in her voice.

But after a moment, she quieted, and said in a far off voice, "But as much as I enjoy the sunshine, I prefer moonlight. It is softer and gentler than the sun—cooler too. It's more forgiving of imperfections, never thrusting them into focus in glaring relief. It seems to calm and soothe even the most sorrowful of hearts."

Giles watched her, and the sad longing in her eyes was unmistakable. He knew she was remembering Erik. Unable to stop himself any longer, he reached forward and brushed an errant wisp of hair away from her eyes, causing her to turn her head and look toward him questioningly. "It is fitting that you should love the moonlight," he murmured to her, gazing into her rich brown eyes, tracing the outline of her cheek with his thumb. "For your spirit is delicate and soft, like the rare flower that blossoms at midnight. Deprived of sun, it finds a way to bloom, despite the most daunting of odds. In its gracefulness, there is strength—in its tenderness, there is fortitude. It is an exquisite paradox. You are a blossom of the moon— _the fleur de lune_. So rare. So…beautiful."

Annie continued to gaze at him, finding herself mesmerized by his poetic words. As his eyelids grew heavy with her nearness and began to flutter closed, Annie blinked as he brought his head closer to hers. Just as her eyes had fallen closed too, and her lips parted in anticipation, she heard a voice call "Monsieur Giry!"

Instantly, both of their heads snapped up and they saw Monsieur Moncharmin hurrying toward them. Giles rose to meet him as Annie looked down in her lap, her complexion ashen at the thought of what had nearly happened.

"Monsieur Giry," Moncharmin said, apparently not having taken note of the position Giles and Annie were in. "A messenger was sent for you. There is some trouble at the cottage. Your presence is required."

A look of surprise and alarm spreading over his face, Giles nodded. "Thank you," he said to his colleague, and then turned back to Annie, who was still looking rather shaken. "I am sorry to cut our lunch short, Mademoiselle Laramie," he said to her, using formalities since Moncharmin was still standing right there.

"It is quite alright, Monsieur Giry," Annie replied, in a hollow voice, not looking up to meet his eyes. "I do believe I have had my fill."

"Business calls me away," he continued. "I am not sure when I will return…"

"Go," Annie said, still not looking at him. "I shall see you tomorrow, I suppose. Or the next day."

"Antoinette," he said, pleadingly, causing her to look up and finally meet his eyes, which were full of worry.

"Go," she said again, nodding solemnly. "I will be fine on my own."

With a sigh, Giles broke their gaze and hurried off, to find the coachman to drive him to the cottage. Annie sat alone on the bench for a few moments more, her throat dry, her heart racing, wondering what on earth had almost just happened between her and Giles. Then, rising from the bench, she squared her shoulders and walked back inside—where an afternoon of rehearsals waited for her.

 **AN: Uh oh! What just happened? And does Moncharmin have the worst timing in the world, or has he just saved the day? More to come...**


	54. Chapter 54

CH 54

The afternoon had been maddening. She had staggered back into the opera house in a haze, not at all certain about what had just passed between her and Giles. Her mind was swirling in confusion, and through it all, she heard Madame Delacroix's cane tap the relentless rhythm, signifying that Annie did not have time to think. Each moment seemed to pass more slowly than the one before it, until she was certain that she would go mad before the day finally came to an end.

When the musicians finally stopped their playing and Madame had dismissed the girls to dinner, Annie rushed out of the rehearsal room even as a few of the other dancers called after her. Her feet propelled her once again toward Box 5, never stopping their forward motion, even when she flung open the door and tripped the lever in the wall without hesitation. Down and down she flew on the all too familiar steps, until she was turning the corner of the misty chamber in the subterranean depths of the opera house.

"Erik," she sobbed, letting herself fall to her knees on the shores of the lake, the brewing tension of the past few hours finally bubbling over. "Oh Erik! I'm sorry."

She recalled that night—over a year ago—when she and Erik were given shelter by the friendly stranger they had met on the streets of Paris. He had felt so inadequate—rendered so insecure—by the ease with which the handsome gentleman had provided them everything they needed. The man was possessed of wealth, power, good looks, and charm—and Erik had been well aware that those were areas in which he was sorely lacking. He was so certain he needed these things to be the type of man Annie deserved. She had spent the night assuring Erik that for all of this man's charms, not even a prince could ever sway her heart away from him. And yet, this afternoon, she had shared lunch with the very man whose existence Erik had found so threatening. She had nearly allowed him to kiss her!

And there was no doubt in her mind that if Monsieur Moncharmin had not interrupted them, she would have kissed him back.

"Ugh!" she moaned as she flung herself to her feet and paced the shores of the lake, arms crossed in front of her chest. The guilt pressed down on her so hard she could barely breathe. How _could_ she? How could she betray the love of her life this way? She'd promised Erik that she would love him forever—and she _did_ still love him, as truly as the sun rose in the morning. He was her first thought upon waking and her last tear as she fell asleep at night. She still felt the void—the heavy emptiness that consumed her waking hours—reminding her incessantly that the man she loved was dead.

 _But sometimes when she was with Giles…_

Annie's pacing stilled and she stood, staring out at the water. Sometimes, when she saw the twinkle in his cheerful blue eyes, or the bounce in his blond curls when he laughed…she had to admit, the weight temporarily lessened—buoyed, it seemed—by the brightness of his smile. Giles had always been a friend to her—from the moment they first met and he offered them a home. But since the news that Erik had died, Giles Giry had been her rock.

He carried her in those first moments, offering her sanctuary in those dark days—allowing her the privacy she needed to fall apart. But it had not been enough to leave her pieces scattered on the floor. No, Giles had gingerly picked up each one, handling them gently, showing the greatest of care. Then, with the utmost tenderness, Giles set about putting those pieces back together. He saw to her nourishment, even when she refused to eat. He listened to her pour out her soul, even when it meant accepting lies she had told him without ever batting an eye. He even went so far as to bring Charles Garnier in from Monaco so that she could have a companion in her grief.

Giles continued to build her up even now—meeting her every day for lunch, to make certain she was taking care of herself, bartering with Madame Delacroix to get her some much needed time off. And never failing to tell her what a treasure she was—both to the Opera House, and to him.

Annie never should have allowed herself to rely on him so much—to fan the flames of false hope that obviously resided in his heart. She knew he'd had feelings for her. That much had been made plain the night of the ball—the first time he had almost kissed her. She had pushed him away that night—explaining to him that her heart already belonged to another. But today, when he'd leaned in, she'd had no intention of pushing him away. Rather it had been like an unseen magnet was somehow pulling them together, and Annie had eagerly anticipated feeling—finally—what she imagined was the firm softness of his lips.

 _Would it have been like kissing Erik?_ she wondered.

She remembered giving him his first birthday kisses all those years ago on the farm. His one cheek had been so smooth— _so soft_ and warm beneath her lips, while the other one had been all raised ridges and cords, and yet no less beautiful to feel. He had been trembling—so shocked that she had kissed him, when no one else—not even his own mother—ever had before. When their lips later met under the sprig of mistletoe, she could not deny the depths of their emotions for each other—the love and tenderness that were etched in the reverence of that kiss. It had seemed as if each one's souls had been breathed into the other's body, blending them together for all eternity.

 _But how would it have felt to kiss Giles?_ She shuddered, raising a finger to brush faintly against her lips, reliving in a flash, that surge of electricity that seemed to arc between them as they'd moved slowly toward each other—lips seeking lips.

 _What am I doing, Mother?_ she asked herself, horrified that she could even be considering kissing another man in the very place where she and Erik had consummated their love, their passions searing through them and sealing their bond forever. _This can't be good! This can't be right._

" _Why_ did you have to leave me, Erik?" she shouted over the lake, her voice echoing in the open chamber. "You swore that you would _never_ leave—that you would always be my Erik and I would always be your Annie. It's all I ever wanted! All I ever dreamed my life would be!" Weeping inconsolably, she found herself crumbling to her knees once again. Between broken sobs, she moaned, " _How_ can you be dead, Erik, when I can still feel you in my soul—your essence in every bone of my body? And if you are dead," she groaned, "why is it that I am still alive?"

Burying her head in her hands, she wept for what seemed like the millionth time since Erik had died. Sometimes she felt like all she did was cry, for truly, what else was there left for her to do?

 _You didn't die, Antoinette!_ she heard Giles's own words echo in her mind.

 _You can live, Annie_ , she heard her mother's far off voice tell her. _You are meant to live._

Annie waited until her tears were spent, and she slowly straightened herself to a standing position. Looking out over the waters of the lake, she set her jaw and lifted her chin. "If I am meant to live," Annie told herself resolutely, "then I will do it by myself. I must learn to be all right on my own. I can no longer lean so heavily on Giles Giry. Nothing has changed. My heart is not my own."

And allowing her eyes to roam once more around the chamber that made her feel so close to Erik, Annie turned and made her way back to the dorms.

* * *

 _"_ _Guess who!" the sweet voice that always set his heart thrilling asked from behind him, while dainty fingers covered over his eyes, obscuring the view of the sheet music on which he had been scribbling his latest composition. All thoughts of quarter notes and whole rests left his mind immediately upon catching the scent of the sweet perfume of her hair. Suddenly the most productive thing Erik could imagine doing for the rest of the afternoon was playing along with her silly game, garnering squeals of laughter, and later, blessed, blissful sighs of delight._

 _"_ _My guess," Erik said slowly, lowering his pen to the surface of his small writing desk, to free his hands of any distractions, "Is that it is the only woman foolhardy enough to want to touch this accursed face."_

 _Erik knew that Annie would be rolling her eyes right about then, as she said, "Oh you, with your accursed face nonsense! You know that I think you're beautiful—and that I want to touch so much more than your face!"_

 _"_ _Mmmmmm," Erik hummed, a smile breaking out over his features as he shifted his body and took her hands in his to pull her around to the front. Once she was securely nestled on his lap, he tangled his fingers together with hers, smiling as he saw the twin glints of gold flashing from each of their left hands. Tilting his head up and using his right hand to pull her face toward him, his lips grazed across her soft, pliant ones. "Touch me to your heart's content," he murmured, "dearest wife."_

 _When their lips separated, Erik gazed up lovingly into her eyes, ready to do a little further touching himself, when Annie's eyes suddenly grew troubled and she said, "I am not your wife, Erik. Don't you remember? You left me."_

 _Narrowing his eyes in confusion, he saw the room around them slowly began to fade away, dissolving around the edges until soon there was nothing left but Annie. Trying to force her harsh words out of his mind, he shook his head and breathed the word, "No!"_

 _"_ _Yes, Erik," she persisted, her face now showing the heartbreak and betrayal that he was beginning to detect in her voice. "You left me. I wanted nothing but you, but you went anyway. Why did you have to leave me, Erik?" She pushed against his chest as she rose to her full height, and stood before him. Suddenly, she began to glide backwards, starting to fade from view as she did._

 _"_ _No," he made his breathless protest, reaching out for her, trying desperately to draw her near. "It was all for us, Annie. Please, don't go!"_

 _"_ _You left me, Erik." Annie said again, as her form continued to melt away. "And now you are gone…"_

 _"_ _NO! ANNIE. COME BACK!"_

Erik startled awake with a shout. As he recognized the familiar silence and darkness all around him, he realized it had all been a dream. Her nearness—her scent—her touch—none of them were anything but an elusive, ephemeral dream. And yet, even in his dream, he could not have her.

"OH Annie," he wailed, as sobs shook his form. "I'm sorry…I'm so sorry," he cried over and over again.

"Erik?" came the small, tentative voice of the girl who had wretchedly been charged with bringing him his food.

"Why must you always return?" Erik bellowed, frustrated that for the second time, now, he had been caught crying. But what else was there left for him to do? He had lost his Annie—all he wanted to do was die. And yet this girl was incessantly bringing him food to keep his body going, even though his spirit just wanted to let go.

"It…it is my…my duty," Yasmin responded, trembling at the tone of his voice.

"I relieve you of your duty, then," Erik responded.

"You…you cannot relieve me," she stammered, wondering what had brought about this vast change in Erik's spirits. "My master is the shah."

"Well then you can tell your vile, loathsome master," Erik growled "That I want nothing more to eat. I want no more provisions."

"B…but Erik," she whimpered. She realized she sounded like a whiny girl. At the moment, she didn't care. "Then you would die."

"I WANT TO DIE!" he thundered from the darkness.

"I don't want you to die," Yasmin responded, feeling hot tears well in her eyes. She was not sure if they were because she was sad or frightened, but as she spoke her next words, she felt them rolling down her cheek. "I…I want to hear the rest of your song, remember? You promised," she told him, though they both knew he did no such thing. "And I know you don't want me to mention her name, but I have a feeling that there is someone in this world who loves you—who loves you very much. And I don't want to fail her by letting you die."

Erik listened to Yasmin, her voice thick with tears, and he suddenly felt horrible—and _that_ made him angry. Why on earth did he have to be plagued with perhaps the only tenderhearted girl in all of Persia who would actually care whether he lived or died? Why did she have to know his name, and for God's sake, why had she told him hers? Why could she not be content to simply leave his tray, and pick it up later, not caring whether or not he had actually eaten? Why, oh why, did his life matter to her so much?

Erik internally asked himself all these questions, but all the time he already knew the answer. It was because she was so much like Annie. Annie had never stopped caring either.

"Annie was— _is_ —the love of my life," Erik began in a quiet whisper, hoping that by giving Yasmin some background information, she might finally understand why she should simply let him die in peace. "I met her when we were children—probably not much older than you. And she was beautiful— _so_ very beautiful—with onyx eyes and wavy hair that was dark as night. We've been on many adventures together—saw each other through many dangerous situations. She is the one person in this entire world who has ever looked upon my unmasked face and told me I was beautiful." Erik swallowed hard against the emotions that were threatening to overwhelm him. Taking a deep breath, he continued, "But it was when she told me she… _loved_ me…that she took my breath away."

"You see, Erik," Yasmin interjected, listening to his tale, rapt with wonder. "You have so much to live for."

"Not anymore, Yasmin," Erik continued. "I left her, and now we are separated and I will never see her again."

"Why did you leave?" Yasmin asked, truly not understanding why Erik didn't just stay with this woman, if she made him so happy.

"You have not seen my face, Yasmin, but you know I must wear a mask. Well, no one trusts a man who wears a mask. Annie had agreed to become my bride—she actually _wanted_ to marry me. But I wanted to be a husband to her in a true sense. Loving her was easy—that came as naturally as breathing. I wanted to _provide_ for her—to give her a home and a life she deserved. When I couldn't find a job, I saw no other option than to go abroad and seek my fortune. And that eventually brought me here. And, as I said, now I will never see her again."

Yasmin was saddened to hear this part of Erik's story. "What if we could get word to her," she asked, trying to help. "What if we could tell her that you were imprisoned here and…"

"No!" Erik said, grateful that he had not mentioned where they had lived. "I do not want you to contact her."

"But," Yasmin said, not understanding Erik's refusal to write to Annie. "You are obviously in agony without her. You even said you wanted to die…"

"I would rather die than let her know I was a prisoner of the shah," Erik insisted firmly. "If she knew, she would come here and foolishly try to rescue me. And if the shah got his hands on her…" Erik's voice trailed off as a chill ran down his spine. "Yasmin, I'm not worth it. I am in prison because I _am_ a murder. The man Annie loved did not kill in cold blood. I would rather ache for her than bring her into this hell for the sake of a murderer."

Yasmin swallowed, realizing that unless Erik had a change of heart, she would have to abide by his decision. "Very well, Erik," she nodded. "I don't exactly understand, but I can respect your wishes. However, if you would please come out of the darkness, I brought you something that might help you pass your time."

Still feeling guilty for how he had scared Yasmin earlier, Erik came forward into the little circle of light her lantern provided.

When she saw him, she smiled, and held up a small book. "It's a journal, Erik. You can use it to jot down your thoughts, or to draw…or even to write letters to your Annie that one day you might decide to send." Reaching her hand through the bars of his cell, she held the book out to him.

He reached out slowly, and took the book in his grasp, appreciating the fine designs that were embossed on its cover.

"I brought you some pencils too," she said, handing several sharpened writing implements through the bars of the cage.

Erik looked out and met her eyes. "Th…thank you, Yasmin," he said quietly. "I am humbled by your thoughtfulness."

Obviously very pleased with herself, Yasmin smiled. "You're welcome, Erik. I think the candle would make it easier for you to write or draw, if you ever plan to use it."

Once again, Erik nodded quietly, looking from the girl to the journal with a feeling of appreciation taking lodge in his soul.

"Just please promise me one thing," she added. "Keep eating—keep up your strength. Regardless of what you think, you may need it one day. For Annie."

 **AN: Poor Erik and Annie! Both in such turmoil! They are bonded more than they realize, even though they are so far apart. I hope this chapter illuminated Annie's thoughts when she almost allowed Giles to kiss her. She's not over Erik-not by a long shot. But she's just trying to feel something other than pain.**


	55. Chapter 55

CH 55

"Mademoiselle Laramie," the familiar voice called, as Annie hurried out of the rehearsal room, eager to get lost in the crowd of girls who were heading toward the lunchroom.

"Mademoiselle Laramie!" came the call once more, but looking over at Nina and laughing, Annie pretended to ignore it.

"Antoinette!" Giles finally called, and hearing that he'd used her first name in public, Annie stopped, closing her eyes and steeling herself for the conversation that was to come. _Be strong, Annie_ , she whispered in her mind. _Think of Erik._

"Finally!" Giles hurried over to her, slightly out of breath. "I thought you were ignoring my calls!"

"Now, why would I do that, Monsieur Giry?" she answered with a tight little smile. "I was merely taken in by the conversation of my companions."

"Well, that is good to hear!" Giles said, a smiled brightening his features, forcing Annie to look down to keep herself from smiling too.

"I must apologize for my abrupt departure yesterday afternoon," Giles began. "There was a… _small_ …emergency at the cottage and as landlord I had to…"

Annie put her hand up to stop him. "Please," she said. "Don't feel you have to justify your whereabouts or your duties to me."

A bit of the humor left Giles's eyes as he looked at her in confusion. "Well I…it's just that it interrupted our lunch…"

"Which had probably gone on far too long anyway," Annie interjected coolly. "Really, Monsieur Giry, it's fine."

Giles nodded slowly and with a questioning look asked her, "Can I make it up to you? Perhaps take you to a café for today's lunch instead of sitting out on the bench? I'm sure Madame Delacroix wouldn't mind if you were a little late returning."

"Actually, I will be joining the girls for lunch in the dormitories," she told him plainly, making sure to keep her expression neutral.

"Oh," Giles said, in surprise. "Well, that's… _good_ …I guess…"

"Yes," she agreed. "I felt it was really time that I started spending more time with my peers. I _must_ broaden my circle of friends."

"Um…" Giles cocked his head to the side and seemed to appraise the information she had given him. "I…ah…agree," he finally stated with a smile. "You _should_ spend more time with the other girls."

"I plan to," Annie smiled and nodded. "So, if that's all you had to say…I do not wish to keep them waiting."

"Yes, I…" Giles cleared his throat, "I suppose I am done now. You…ah…go ahead and meet up with the girls. And don't let your food get cold. I'll…um…see you…around."

With a final smile and nod, Annie said, "I'm sure you will." Then she turned and walked in the direction of the dormitories, not allowing herself to give much heed to the fact that she suddenly felt as if she could barely breathe.

* * *

Yasmin reached the door to the dungeon and braced herself for the worst. She never knew what to expect when she entered the deepest, darkest cell of the prison. Would she hear the agonized wailing that she knew came straight from Erik's soul—a sour lament over love so sorrowfully lost? Would there be nothing but silence—an engulfing blackness filling the room? Or would she hear him screaming?

Today, however, a much more welcome sound danced on the air. Erik was once again humming the same rich, beautiful melody Yasmin had heard him hum once before. Heartened by the joy that seemed to be interwoven into the tune, Yasmin gave a little knock, and quickly opened the door. And when she did, she was surprised to find light.

Erik was seated near the front of his cell—the little candle she had brought to him casting a soft yellow glow on the journal in which he was so studiously sketching. Absorbed by his work, Erik did not notice her presence at first, but rather continued his efforts, humming almost absentmindedly the whole time.

Yasmin did nothing to disturb him, but rather sat down in front of the bars, tucking her feet beneath her, to listen. After a while, she found herself closing her eyes and swaying along with the melody, a sweet smile sneaking across her lips, as she envisioned cool night time breezes and sweet figs plucked fresh off the tree.

"How long have you been there?" Erik suddenly asked, jolting Yasmin out of her daydream.

Opening her eyes in surprise, she saw Erik looking out of his cell at her, an expression of embarrassment clear in his eyes. "Long enough to know that the rest of your song was just as beautiful as I had imagined," Yasmin responded with a smile, still somewhat entranced by the exquisite melody she had just heard.

Erik's look of chagrin turned to a scowl as he said, "It is impolite to eavesdrop."

"Oh, I wasn't eavesdropping," Yasmin protested. "I even knocked before entering. You were just very focused on your work, and I didn't want to disturb you."

Erik pursed his lips together in annoyance that seemed to be directed more toward himself than at Yasmin. But before he could say anything, the slave girl added, "That really was the loveliest song I have ever heard. I'm really glad you didn't die before you could hum it for me."

Erik took in a deep breath, meaning to retort with something harsh—but when he saw the absolute sincerity in the girl's luminous green eyes, he suddenly found his ire spent. "Thank you, Yasmin," was all he could think to say. "I am glad my continued animation pleases you."

Yasmin could not help but give a little chuckle at the strangeness of his words, but then she asked, "What is it called?"

With a questioning glance Erik asked, "What is what called?"

"The _song_ ," she replied. "What's its name, and where did you hear it?"

Erik lowered his eyes and sighed before answering, "I wrote the song Yasmin. I have always called it _Annie_."

"You _wrote_ it?" his little caretaker asked, her eyes widening in surprise.

"Yes, I did," Erik reiterated plainly, but when he noticed the look of awe and admiration on her face, he huffed a little in annoyance, rolling his eyes as he added, "I spent a very lonely childhood, Yasmin. Music was the one thing I could always use to pass the time. I suppose, over time, I have developed certain…skills."

"I'll say," Yasmin answered. "Why do you call your song _Annie_?"

"Because I wrote it for her," Erik said, his eyes softening and taking on a faraway expression. "She had just rescued me from a gypsy fair, where I had been forced to reveal my face to earn money for the masters. It was a horrible existence—full of abuse and ridicule—but Annie saved me from it. She broke me out of my cage and dragged me back to the farm where she lived, hiding me away in the barn, so that I would not be discovered by her wicked stepfather. She tended my wounds and nursed me back to health. I will never forget the way the sun streamed in through the loft window only to dance upon her ebony waves, and light a sparkle in her deep brown eyes. To me, she _was_ beauty itself, both in her physical form and in her soul—and the melody just came to me.

" _She_ loved the song too," Erik continued with a smile, finding himself unable to stop talking about the angelic girl who had saved his life, "When I played it for her on my worn out violin, she closed her eyes and smiled—much like you just did. I barely believed it possible, but as I watched her listen to my music, she seemed even more lovely—as if in her reaction I could see her very soul. And her soul was truly radiant.

"I was too embarrassed to tell her at first that I had written the song for her," a rueful smile spread over his lips, "—but I think she always knew. I could never hide anything from Annie. She knew me so well…"

"What is she like?" Yasmin asked when Erik's voice trailed off.

"She is beautiful and talented," Erik declared, wistfully. "A gifted dancer who is the absolute embodiment of elegance and grace. She is compassionate and soft hearted, and yet she is _so strong_. She never backs down from something she believes in—and she could definitely hold her own in an argument against me." Erik smiled and added, "She had this way of setting her hands on her hips and jutting her chin forward that told me, right from the start, I was done for. Still, she loved me. If there was ever anything in this world I was sure of, it was the absolute fact that Annie loved me. She knew the real me—saw all of me without any pretense—and she loved me still. And for that I shall be hers until the end of my days." Erik lowered his head and one stray tear fell and landed on the journal. Erik swiftly brushed away the tear with his hand, lovingly smoothing the page on which he had been drawing.

Feeling herself close to tears at the obvious strength of her prisoner's emotions, Yasmin said, "She sounds remarkable. I wish I could meet her."

Glancing up at the girl hesitantly for a moment, Erik slowly turned his journal, handing it through the bars to Yasmin. The book was open to a page with a drawing of a woman, her long wavy black hair flowing behind her. She was looking over her shoulder, and her eyes were playful, laughing. She wore a long round rose behind her ear, and her lips were smiling.

"This is her—" Erik said softly, "My beloved Annie Laramie—the light in my darkness—the angel who saved my soul. I never truly lived, Yasmin, until I met her. And without her, I will never be truly alive again."

"Please, Erik," Yasmin beseeched him, looking up from the journal back to her prisoner's glowing golden eyes. "Let me write to her and tell her that you are here."

"No!" Erik snapped decisively. "I will not have her put herself at risk for my sake. No, Yasmin," he added, his voice softening a bit, "I am paying for my crimes, and the only thing that makes it bearable is knowing that she is safe."

"To be able to love her so much, there must be good in you, Erik," Yasmin declared, her eyes wet with unshed tears. "And I just hate the thought of you being so sad and so lonely."

Erik looked at Yasmin's face—so filled with compassion and distress because of his suffering. She was a good girl—a sweet girl who had no reason to care so much for his comfort—and yet she did. And her kindness moved him to want to do something to ease her pain.

"Yasmin," he said, forcing his voice to become a bit more hopeful. "You hardly allow me to be lonely. The…" he paused briefly, trying to find the right word, " _friendship_ you have shown me. It helps."

With a sniff, Yasmin looked up at him and smiled through glassy eyes. "It does? I honestly thought I annoyed you, Erik."

Erik gave a little chuckle, and said, "Forgive me my gruffness, little lady…"

"I am not so very…"

"I know," Erik interjected, laughing fully now. "I know. Forgive me my gruffness, _Yasmin_ ," he repeated, correcting his offensive language, "but yes, it helps."

"Well, I am pleased to hear it," Yasmin answered, grinning from ear to ear.

They were both quiet for a moment, until Yasmin got an idea, looking down at his sketch of Annie once more. "Erik?" she asked.

"Yes, Yasmin?"  
"Can you teach me how to draw?"

Amused by her surprising request, Erik hunched a little nearer to the bars, taking the sketchbook back from her. "To draw?"

"Yes," Yasmin reiterated, scooting a little closer to the cell so she could see.

"Oh, drawing's easy." Erik began, turning to a clean page in the journal, and setting his pencil to the paper. "You just have to be very observant and draw what you see. Like this…"

* * *

Space.

Annie knew she required space from Giles—she needed to not lean so heavily on him. She needed time to work through her emotions about Erik, and she knew she could not do that by spending so much time with Giles. So, since that day on the bench outside the opera house, Annie had barely shared anything with him, except for a fleeting smile as they passed one another in the hall, or a wave across the rehearsal room. She had been taking all her meals in the dining hall with the other girls, and though, at first, Giles still made a point to check on her, it soon became clear that he would respect her wishes to put some distance between them. The past month, in fact, he had given her all the space she had so desperately desired.

Except, now that she had the space, she found that she missed him.

She never laughed so hard at the girls' _funny_ stories about ridiculous boys as she had at Giles's absurdly bad jokes. And when she was feeling particularly blue, not even a room full of ballerinas could drag her out of her doldrums the way one of Giles's silly smiles could. She had greatly improved her relationship with her colleagues—of that there was no doubt. But she felt like she was lacking any _true_ companions who understood exactly what she had been going through. And in those moments—the loneliest moments, when Erik's death was hitting her hard—she ached for the comfort of Giles's friendship.

So when it happened that she saw the knob turning on his office door one night as she was making her way to the dining hall, she did not hurry past. Rather she'd stopped in her tracks, and lingered, feeling compelled to say hello.

"Antoinette," Giles said when he saw her, a delighted smile spreading over his features. "What a surprise!"

"I was on my way to the dining hall," she said, sheepishly, feeling suddenly awkward in his presence, "And I saw your door opening, so I thought I'd say hello."

"Well, I'm very glad you did," he replied. "But shouldn't you have been done with rehearsals at least an hour ago?"

"Well," she shrugged, "I had a few extra things I wanted to go over."

"Always the perfectionist!" he exclaimed with a rueful smirk.

"That's me," she said with a little chuckle, not knowing what else to say, but not wanting the conversation to end. After so long without hearing it, she found that she was truly enjoying the sound of his voice.

"How have you been, Antoinette?" Giles asked, and it seemed as if he too were reaching for way to lengthen the conversation.

"Oh, I've been…good," she said. "Madame has been keeping us busy."

"She always does!" Giles quipped.

"Indeed," Annie smiled. "And what about you, Giles? How have _you_ been?"

"Oh, I've been busy too. There are always bills to pay here, and then I have been tending to things down at the cottage. Oh!" his eyes lit up, as if he were remembering the most exciting thing in the world. "I've got a trip coming up as well."

"Oh really?" Annie said, her eyes widening with interest. "Where?"

"Sweden! I'm looking to add another patron, and while I'm there, I will be attending a concert at the music hall, with the hopes of whisking away a few new orchestra members for the Garnier." With a conspiratorial twinkle in his eye, he added, "I can spot talent a mile away, you know! Sometimes, even in the middle of the Paris streets!"

"You've obviously got a very good eye for it."

The two chuckled together at the reference to their first meeting. After their laughter had subsided and they were both quiet once more, Giles said in a soft voice, "I have missed seeing your smile, Antoinette."

Feeling her face redden a bit, Annie swallowed hard. Before she could think better of it, she found herself quietly admitting, "I've missed yours too, Giles."

"Have dinner with me tonight, Antoinette," Giles beseeched her, taking one of her hands in his. "Please. Before I leave for Sweden, let's just have a meal and catch up."

Annie hesitated for a moment, but in the end she could not help but say, "I would like that Giles," she nodded. "But first I have to change."

"Is fifteen minutes enough time?" he asked. "I'll get the carriage ready and you can meet me by the front entrance…"

"Twenty minutes will be plenty," Annie smiled.

And squeezing her hand, Giles was on his way.

But twenty minutes passed by very quickly. Annie took a deep breath, reminding herself that it was only dinner—only two friends catching up. There was no need to be disgusted by the fact that she had nothing grand to wear, or that her hair was impossibly dull after having been up in a bun all day. With a final glance at the mirror, she sighed and made her way to the entrance.

"Shall we," Giles asked, extending his arm by way of greeting as she walked out the door, and suddenly, Annie couldn't help but smile.

Gracefully, she placed her hand on his arm and let him lead her down the stairs to the waiting carriage. They climbed aboard, and with a few last minute instructions to the driver, they were on their way to dinner.

The restaurant Giles chose was a lovely place—simple, yet upscale—homey, yet definitely fancier than any place Annie was accustomed to eating. Of course, since she was used to eating at the dormitory dining hall, or sandwiches prepared on a cart, that wasn't really saying much.

"I believe I am a bit out of my element here, Giles," Annie said, feeling somewhat self-conscious as she smoothed her napkin over her simple blue skirt.

"Nonsense, Annie," Giles said jovially. "I am proud to have you accompanying me here tonight."

"You are too kind," Annie smiled, feeling a new confidence as she opened her menu and balked a bit at the prices.

"Antoinette," Giles scolded, reaching over to pat Annie's hand. "Do not worry. This is my treat."

Giles did not immediately remove his hand from hers, and as Annie met his cornflower blue gaze, she could not help but appreciate the warmth and softness of his touch. When a memory of Erik's face flashed in her mind, however, Annie focused her attention back on the menu, gently extricating her hand to turn the page.

When the waiter came, they gave him their dinner order, and then there was nothing left to do but wait for their food. Annie was acutely aware of Giles's presence, as he watched her from across the small table. Before the silence could turn completely awkward, Annie took a sip of her water and asked, "So, has Madame Delacroix extorted any new tutus lately?"

"In fact," Giles retorted, completely deadpan, "She wants polka dot rainbow ones next. I told her the unicorn horns were quite out of the question, though."

Annie, spat her water back in the glass to keep from choking on her laughter. "Giles!" she exclaimed, between giggles. "Not when I'm drinking! You've got me spitting into my glass in a fine dining establishment! What would the upper crust patrons say?"

"Oh, please, Antoinette," Giles brushed off her concerns. "They are so green with envy that I am sharing my meal with such an exquisite creature, that they have been struck speechless! Besides," he continued, his voice growing in sincerity, all humor now gone, "I care not what anyone says—only that you are here…with me. I've truly missed you…"

"You're very sweet, Giles," Annie looked down, feeling herself blush, but this time, when Giles reached over and took her hand, she did not pull it away.

"You are my _fleur de lune_ , remember? For I could not forget," he told her, his voice soft and low, his thumb tracing lovely little circles on her palm. "Delicate and strong, and so very lovely."

Annie felt her throat go dry at the sound of his words. Glancing up to meet his eyes, suddenly she was back on that bench with him, feeling herself lean forward into the undeniable pull of his lips.

"Giles," she whimpered, even as she found herself bending ever nearer toward him. "I can't."

"Why not?" he asked in a husky whisper, drawing closer to her, his eyelids heavy and low.

And even as she tried to remind herself why this was wrong, at the moment, she could not deny that it felt so right. "I…I don't know…" she sighed, as she closed her eyes and tilted her head upward to receive his lips.

"Is this your new toy, Giles?" they heard a female voice say from above.

Giles and Annie immediately separated and looked up to find the Lady Sophia standing over them, her hands on her hips. From the smell wafting over to them, she had obviously indulged in a few drinks.  
"Sophie," Giles said, in surprise. "I had not noticed you were here."

"Obviously not, Giles," she retorted. "You were _far_ too smitten with your new little pet here." She said, gesturing to Annie.

"Sophie, come on…" Giles interjected, as Annie looked down in mortification.

"Oh, please, Giles," Sophia cut him off. "Don't deny it. You were all over her. But really? A ballet rat? I must say, I never imagined you'd be the type to slum it in public—for all of Paris to see."

Annie's face went white.

"Sophia!" Giles snapped, a curt tone entering his voice.

"Don't you know well enough yet," Sophia asked, a look of disgust curling her lip, "to keep

your little… _indiscretions_ … private?"

"You are not to disrespect Antoinette in this manner!" Giles spat, anger clearly coloring his

voice, and turning his cheeks red.

"What are you going to do about it, _Giles_?" Sophia asked, in mock concern. "Are you going to break up with me? Kick me to the curb? Too late! You've already done that—though I will admit it is a bit embarrassing being dumped for a piece of low class stage trash," she said, gesturing incredulously at Annie, who looked like she was desperately trying to curl herself into a ball so that she could disappear.

"Sophia, that is quite enough!" Giles growled, standing up to physically move her away from Annie. "You are making a scene, and embarrassing my companion."

"You want a scene?" she asked, taking a water glass from the table and throwing the contents in Giles's face, causing him to step back in shock. "There! _Now_ I've embarrassed you!"

"Mademoiselle," said the maître d, finally arriving at their table to whisk Sophia away. "Come with me."

As the man led Sophia away, she shouted back at Giles, "Don't even _think_ about touching me ever again, Giles Giry. We are through!" And then, to Annie, she shouted, "Get everything you can out of him now, Missy, because Monsieur Giry's affections don't last!"

When she was finally gone, Giles knelt down by Annie, water dripping from his hair and down his face. "Antoinette, I'm so sorry…"

"I want to go," she said in a small voice, not looking at him, but pushing in her chair.

"Alright," Giles answered calmly. He tossed some money on the table and took her arm to lead her toward the door. "We'll eat somewhere else."

"No," she stated plainly, shrugging away from his touch, while still walking toward the exit. "I just want to go home."

"But you haven't eaten," he said, with pleading eyes, as they finally made it outside.

"It doesn't matter," she said, still not looking up. "This was a bad idea."

"No, Antoinette…" he begged with her to see reason. "It wasn't."

"Yes it was Giles," she insisted, still in that same calm, controlled voice. "I don't belong here. I don't belong in your world."

"That's preposterous!" he insisted, throwing his arms up in the air in frustration.

"No, it's true."

"Antoinette," he said, sadness clear in his eyes. "How can you say that?"

"Because I don't belong with you, Giles," she said, finally looking at him to meet his eyes. "I belong with Erik. I promised him forever."

Giles could not believe what he was hearing. Not then. Not again. "Erik is dead!" he shouted, finally losing his patience, desperate to get through to her.

"And the part of me that knew how to love died with him," Annie pleaded with him to understand. "That's why I simply cannot do this."

"You know…" Giles said, tears of frustration gathering in his eyes. "I can't do this either. I know you're still grieving, and I know you loved Erik very much—but _you_ know how I feel about you. I can understand you needing time and needing space, but I'm tired of you pushing me away. You need to decide what you want from me, Annie. I'd be happy to be your friend—but it seems lately that whenever we spend time together, _that_ boundary is blurred. I _want_ to be your lover, but you won't let that happen."

"I can't, Giles…" she interjected breathlessly.

"You won't!" he snapped, stopping her protests short. "You can't, because you won't allow yourself to let go! And I…" his voice trailed off, looking away and clenching his jaw as he tried to regain control over his emotions that threatened to overflow. "I _cannot_ allow myself to be cast aside unceremoniously anymore whenever your unfounded guilt gets the better of you. _My_ heart just can't take it, Antoinette."

"Giles…" Annie began, tears streaking down her face. "Giles, I'm sorry. Don't you see? I'm _broken_."

Sniffing in hard, he saw the carriage pull up in front of the restaurant.  
"Please," he said to the driver, "Take her back to the opera house. I will find my own way

home." And without another look at Annie, Giles Giry stalked off into the night.

 **AN: Well, it certainly looks as if Annie has made a tremendous mess out of things! Wanting space-getting space-not wanting space... Sheesh, girl, make up your mind! But it must so hard to have a wonderful man right in front of her-who, under any other circumstances, she probably would have fallen in love with a long time ago-but at the same time, have her heart filled with love for Erik-from whom she would NEVER stray, except that she thinks he's dead! She must be just SO confused!**

 **On the other hand, looks like Erik has taken on a new profession as an art teacher! :)**


	56. Chapter 56

CH 56

"How goes it, Little One?" Kaveh asked, as he gathered his sister into a warm bear hug.

"UGH!" Yasmin groaned as she squeezed him back with all her might. "I keep telling you—I am not so very little!"

"Yasmin," Kaveh laughed as he let her out of his hold. "You will always be my _little_ sister."

"Must you remind me at our every meeting?" she rolled her eyes and took a seat on the stone bench in the garden.

"Well, our meetings have become so rare," he said, sitting down next to her, "that I wanted to make sure you hadn't forgotten."

Yasmin made no response except to once again roll her eyes heavenward. A smile played at the corner of her lips, however, and Kaveh knew that his teasing did not really bother her.

"So, tell me, Yasmin," he said more seriously now that the joking moment had passed. "Have you been keeping yourself busy since last we met? Has the stitching gotten any better?"

"Well, brother," she answered, "there is not much time for stitching with my prison duties to tend to."

Kaveh sighed, "You are still on prison duty?" Knitting his eyebrows together sternly, he asked, "Really Yasmin, what did you do to get stuck with that for so long?"

"I did nothing!" Yasmin answered. "And honestly," she added, after she'd pretended enough offense at the question, "Prison duty is not so bad. Once you get past the fiends who are in the main cell block, _my_ prisoner in the dungeon is actually quite sweet."

Kaveh smacked his hand loudly against his forehead and slowly dragged it down across his face, muttering under his breath as he did so, "Only you, Yasmin." Then, looking her directly in the eye, he asked, "Do you know that the dungeon is reserved for only the most dangerous of criminals? For the most heinous of the lot? The downright scoundrels? The wretches? The scum of society?"

"Well, I know that's what they say," Yasmin responded. "And most of the monsters in the main cell block fit that description. But _my_ prisoner does not."

"Really?" Kaveh asked. "For what transgression is your prisoner in the dungeon, then? Walking in front of the shah's camel? Tarnishing his unicorn's horn?"

Yasmin took in a deep breath and let it out in a huff before answering, "No, he's in for murder."

"Oh," Kaveh said, smiling. " _Just_ murder? Well, I can see why you think he's such a sweet man…"

"He _is_ a sweet man, Kaveh!" Yasmin spat out, wither hands on her hips. "At least he is sweeter to me than _you_ are being right now!"

Kaveh only sighed and said, "Tell me about your prisoner, Yasmin."

Yasmin hesitated only a moment before she began to talk, realizing that she really did want to share her adventures with the strange man in the dungeon. "Well, at first, he would not eat. Every day, I would bring him his food, and he would touch nothing of it. But one day I heard him calling out the name _Annie_ when he did not know I was there, and it seemed that the mention of that name worked magic with him."

"Annie?" Kaveh asked, the name sounding vaguely familiar to him—as if he had heard it, or read it sometime recently.

"Yes, Annie," Yasmin continued. "She is his lover—or was. She has no idea that he's imprisoned here, and that's the way he wants it. He says that she would tear the prison walls down with her bare hands to get to him if she only knew, and he doesn't want her getting involved in any way with the shah."

"Well, I cannot say that I argue with him there," Kaveh interjected. "On that point, at least, he seems to be a smart man."

"Oh, he _is_ a smart man, Kaveh!" Annie nodded vigorously. "Once he finally began talking to me, it became quite obvious. He knows a great deal about music and science and architecture. And you should see him draw, Kaveh!"

"Draw?" Kaveh raised an eyebrow at her. "Since when do they allow art supplies in the dungeon?"

"Well, since I smuggled them in, of course," she told him proudly.

"Yasmin!" he exclaimed, his eyes wide and his face ashen with shock.

"Oh, it was only a journal and some pencils, Kaveh!" Annie waved off his concern. "I thought it might help him pass the time if he had something to do. Well, in the weeks he has had it, he has definitely put it to god use. He drew several pictures of this Annie—she is so beautiful, Kaveh! And he is even teaching _me_ how to draw! Why I drew a horse just yesterday—although he said it looked more like a donkey, but…"

"Yasmin," Kaveh interrupted sharply, with pursed lips and flared nostrils—or what Yasmin liked to refer to as his lecture face. "It seems to me like you are getting far too attached to this prisoner. I will not have you falling for a murderer."

"Falling for?" Yasmin stared at him in shock. "Brothyer dear, have you been listening to anything that I have said? He is in love with this Annie. No matter the distance between them, he will _never_ stop loving her!"

"Still," Kaveh said, "you must promise me that you will be very careful! You are the only female who comes in contact with this prisoner. Even if you are not developing feelings for him, _he_ may develop feelings for you."

"That will never happen, brother," she swore, rising from the bench. "But now, I must be taking my leave. Look at how close to break of day it has become."

Kaveh looked up at the sky, which was turning gray with the impending dawn. "Yes, you must go, little sister!" he commanded, standing before her. With one final hug, the two said goodbye, and Yasmin was on her way, her long black hair flaring out behind her as she turned to head back to the slave chambers.

* * *

The shah had woken early—an uncharacteristic restlessness lodged deep in his soul. Turning over, he considered waking his wife for an early morning romp, but glancing over at her, he found that she did nothing to whet his appetite. She had shared his bed too long—it might be time for her to be retired…

An early morning trip to the harem might be just what he needed to calm the storm in his mind—not to mention the stirring in his loins. Rising from his bed and hastily pulling on his robe, he decided to take the shortcut through the orchard, but was surprised to find that it was not as empty as he expected.

Noting a couple reclining together on one of his stone benches, he hid himself quickly among the grove of fruit trees. Though he was not close enough to hear their conversation, it _was_ clear to him, that they were an impassioned pair. Who was this delicate waif sitting with that oaf of a guard he had appointed years ago? He had never seen her before—for surely, he would have remembered a creature as exotic as this.

When they stood to embrace before parting ways, the shah noticed that the girl seemed quite a bit younger than the guard. Still, she was beginning to show the first slight curves of womanhood that he found absolutely delectable. And when she turned with a smile and waved a coquettish goodbye, he could not help but revel in the perfume that wafted off her hair.

He watched her go, staying hidden in his spot in the orchard. He would have to keep his eye on this little slave girl. She might be just the right ingredient to sweeten up his harem.

* * *

"Mademoiselle Laramie!" Madame Delacroix's cane slammed down hard on the floor, causing the other ballerinas to flinch, even though her ire was directed at only one of them. "Again you are a step behind!"

"I am truly sorry, Madame," Annie responded, allowing herself one last glance toward the corner of the rehearsal room before looking down at the floor. The corner was empty, of course, and that was the problem. There was no one standing there, waiting—no warm smile of encouragement to get her through the more challenging bits of choreography. Giles Giry was still away on his business trip to Sweden and Annie had not realized how much she relied upon his quiet support until he was gone. Even when he had been giving her space, he would still stop in on rehearsals. Though she had been careful, for the most part, not to meet his eye, Giles's mere presence must have had a calming effect on her, for since he had been gone, the routines had been giving her nothing but fits.

"That is the fifth time this afternoon that I have had to call you out, Antoinette!" the older woman continued her tirade. "This is not behavior becoming of the Prima Ballerina."

"I know, Madame," Annie said contritely. "I promise I will do better." And she knew she would. Because Giles was scheduled to return from Sweden tonight, and if he resumed his usual routine, he would be in attendance at rehearsal tomorrow. Then perhaps she would be able to focus.

"See to it, Mademoiselle!" Delacroix snapped. "I do not have time to train a new Prima Ballerina!"

"Yes, Madame," Annie nodded.

With a loud huff, Madame Delacroix addressed the girls. "I am flustered by your general lack of flair and grace! I have had enough of all of you! You are dismissed for the rest of the day—and you'd best come back refreshed tomorrow and ready to work!" And with another crack of her baton, Madame Delacroix was on her way.

 _Tomorrow_ , Annie thought, as she gathered her things and prepared to leave the rehearsal room with the rest of the girls. It would all be better tomorrow. Giles would be back. He would come to rehearsal, and flash her one of his sheepish little smiles. She would spare him a passing glance and continue on with her dance, and all would be as it was before. She would feel supported—she would feel safe—she would feel right.

 _Are you certain that that is how things will be?_ She heard her mother's voice ask in her head. _Are you certain he will be there for you?_

Annie swallowed hard and she felt her chest constrict as she realized that honestly, she _wasn't_ certain. Her last evening with Giles had been a disaster. Once again, they had nearly crossed a line in their relationship from which they would never be able to return—and once again, she held back. She had wanted so badly to kiss him—his lips had been a breath away from hers when they had been interrupted by Lady Sophia's tirade. As embarrassing as her words had been, they did not have to ruin everything. Giles had been willing to continue on with their evening and pretend as if nothing had ever happened. But something _had_ happened.

 _Erik_ had happened.

Once again, when jolted out of the emotional spell that Giles's charm seemed to cast on her, Annie pulled away. She had told him that the part of her that knew how to love had died along with Erik—that the part of her that could care for another person had been irreparably broken. But then why was it that she could feel her knees weaken when Giles was around—and more importantly, why did she feel so damned alone in a crowded room unless he was in it with her?

Annie felt the frustration building in her head and knew that she needed time to think. She was going to visit the lake—a place she hadn't been since her last evening with Giles. She needed to clear her head. She needed to talk to Erik.

She made her excuses with the girls, and had just passed the managers' offices on her way to Box 5 when she heard someone calling her name. Annie turned just in time to see Monsieur Moncharmin scurrying down the hall with a parcel in his hand.

"Mademoiselle Laramie," he called again, huffing from exertion. "Wait."

"Damn!" Annie muttered under her breath, but looked up at him with a pleasant expression. "Yes, Monsieur Moncharmin. What is it?"

"Well," the scatterbrained manager began, gesturing toward the parcel he held in his hand. "It seems that when I was at the post office, I erroneously picked up some of Monsieur Giry's personal mail along with the opera house correspondences."

"Oh," Annie said, looking at the package in the man's hand, confused as to how this had anything to do with her. "Well, I am certain if you leave it in his office, he will find it in the morning."

"But that is just it, Mademoiselle," Moncharmin continued. "This parcel was supposed to go to Monsieur Giry's cottage—and I know that the mail that goes there is of a very urgent nature."

"Urgent?" Annie asked, eyebrow raised.

"Well, yes—since there is a child involved…" he replied.

"A…child?" Annie asked, feeling her throat suddenly go dry. Why would Giles be getting parcels meant for a child? Unless, of course…

"So could you deliver it for me?" the older man asked.

"What? You want me to deliver it?" Annie asked, not certain she had heard correctly.

"Well yes. You see, I have so many things to do this afternoon in his absence—and since you lived there for a time…"

"Yes," Annie cut off his string of excuses. "Yes, I will be happy to drop this by the cottage."

"Thank you, Mademoiselle," Moncharmin said, thrusting the package into her hands. "I'm certain he will appreciate it."

Annie looked down at the bundle wrapped in brown paper in her hands. _G. Giry_ , the address began, with the location of the cottage being scrawled underneath. The return address was listed as _Petit Enfants_ a well-known supplier of baby items.

Annie felt tightness forming in her chest. She made her way to the front door, and exited the opera house, trying to ignore the pounding in her head. _Why on earth was Giles purchasing baby items?_ He had always seemed like an open book—always so sincere and unassuming whenever he was with her. He made her feel as if she had known him all of her life. But what did she _not_ know about him? What secrets was he keeping from her? _Who was this child? Who was its mother?_

 _And that was the question really, wasn't it?_ Annie thought, as she forced her feet to carry her in the direction of the cottage. If there was a child— _Giles's_ child—then there had to be a mother. And if that were the case, Giles was being dishonest with her. All the times he had been there for her—all the times he had nearly kissed her—all the talk about wanting to be her lover. It was all a lie if he had a child—and…and a _wife_ —living in his cottage. Or worse—if he had refused to marry the girl after having gotten her pregnant—preferring to just hide her away in his cottage and continue living his life with little inconvenience. Was Giles truly the type of man to do that? Did Annie truly know what type of man Giles was at all?

And she found herself asking another question as she stood in front of the door to the cottage, arm raised to knock. _Did she want to know?_ Like it or not, Giles was the only friend she had since Erik had died. She had been hoping so fervently to resume their friendship from where it had left off when he'd departed for Sweden. Did she really want to know what— _who_ —was on the other side of that cottage door? Should she just knock and leave the parcel on the step, never waiting to see who answered the door? At least if she did that, her safe illusion of Giles being eternally good could be preserved—and she wouldn't have to know if he weren't. Annie had nearly decided to do just that, but her decision was made for her, when the knob began to turn.

A woman, holding an infant on her shoulder, opened the door. She had long red hair and pale skin that stretched delicately over high cheekbones and a dancer's body. Her eyes first fell on the package in Annie's hands, but when the woman looked up to meet her shocked gaze, a flash of recognition followed by a smile of delight spread across her face. "Antoinette Laramie? Is that really you?"

Annie looked at the woman before her absolutely dumbfounded. "Giselle?"

"Yes, it's me," the red head nodded excitedly. "And this," she said, shifting the baby in her arms, so that Annie could see his face, "is Alain, my son."

Annie looked down at the child that Giselle held out before her. His eyes were closed in his slumber, but his hair was the same sandy shade of the man she knew was his father—Philippe, the future count-de-Chagny.

Annie looked up at Giselle in confusion, not able to find the words to form the questions that were screaming in her mind.

"Come in, Antoinette," Giselle said, turning to invite Annie into the parlor. "Please. It has been so long!"

Completely confused as to what was going on, Annie followed Giselle into the parlor, setting the box on the entryway table, and took a seat on the small settee. Giselle smiled at her warmly, asking, "Would you mind holding Alain while I go prepare tea?"

Still at a loss for words, Annie nodded and held out her arms to accept the resting infant. He fidgeted a bit when he felt his mother's arms leave him, but after a moment, Alain was lost in his dream world once again, and Annie was left to stare in wonder at this tiny human being in her arms. He was impossibly small, and so delicately perfect, his face the picture of serenity as he slumbered, completely unaware of the tumultuous questions tumbling around in Annie's head.

One thing was certain—this was _not_ Giles's child, and his mother was not some discarded lover, he kept in hiding at the cottage. This was definitely the son of Phillippe de Chagny. Yet how he and his mother had come to be here, she had no idea.

When the redhead returned with a silver tea service in her hands, Annie looked up from the sleeping child to ask, "How is it that you are still in Paris, Giselle? I thought you had been sent home to your family."

"I _had_ been dismissed from the opera house, yes," Giselle said, pouring Annie a cup of tea. "But my parents wouldn't have me. They said I brought disgrace to the family by finding myself with child out of wedlock. I had nowhere to go, Antoinette. I expected the carriage to turn me out on some city street where I would have to beg to survive—or worse." Swallowing hard, she continued. "I had no real hope that my baby or I would live through the winter. Until, that is, the carriage dropped us off here."

Taking a sip of her own tea, she continued, "I was given a key by the coachman and informed that I was to stay here—that the master would be by shortly. I had no idea what was going on, but being alone and pregnant, I didn't argue. I came inside and waited for the landlord to arrive. To be honest, I was preparing myself for the worst—certain that there was no way that I would be given shelter without having something dire expected of me in return.

"But later that afternoon, Monsieur Giry arrived, and I discovered that this was _his_ cottage. He told me that he felt awful for what had happened to me—that he had tried to convince the other managers to let me stay, and to confront Philippe with the fact that he had fathered a child, but that they prohibited it. But he said that he could not allow me to be turned out onto the streets—and that, since his cottage was in need of a tenant, he would be happy if I filled the vacancy.

"I told him there was no way I could ever pay him to live here—but he insisted that it didn't matter. He didn't need money, and he had the means to see my child was cared for—since the father wasn't going to do so. And so, having nowhere else to turn, I accepted his gracious offer. What else could I do?"

"I…" Annie tried to respond, but was still too stricken for words. She recalled the conversation she had had with Giles that night—the night Giselle had been told that she was being sent away. She remembered railing on about how cruel and unfair it was—how he needed to so something to _help_ her. But she'd never known that he _had_. He never told her he was helping Giselle and her child. He never tried to garner favor from her for performing a good deed. He had simply done it because it had to be done. He'd done it because it was right.

"He _has_ taken care of me, Antoinette," Giselle continued with her story, as Annie tried to come to terms with everything she had learned. "He has provided for our every need, having a midwife come in to help with the birth when it was time, and always making sure we had plenty of food and clothing. And he has asked for _nothing_ in return." Reaching out and taking one of Annie's hands for emphasis, Giselle repeated her last words. "I mean that, Antoinette. He has asked for _nothing_."

"I…I…" Annie's thoughts swirled around in her head, causing her to struggle just to find the simplest of words. "Does anyone else know?"

"Only Marie," Giselle informed her. "And only because he knew I would need at least one close friend to help me through all of this."

"I…" Annie told her, shaking her head, still in shock, "I had no idea."

"He insisted we keep this quiet," Giselle said. "He did not want word to get around he opera house."

"No, I…" Annie nodded. "I understand."

"Antoinette," Giselle said, squeezing her hand. "I want you to know there is absolutely nothing between Monsieur Giry and myself except friendship. I feel awful about breaking up your luncheon date a while back. I needed Giles because Alain had spiked a fever and I wanted to get him to a doctor. But it was nothing more than that, I swear."

"Date?" Annie murmured, looked over at Giselle in confusion. "Why…w…why are you telling me this?"

"Because you need to know, Antoinette," Giselle implored. "Even though he has been helping me with Alain, he has no feelings for me. I know," She said, looking down, her cheeks turning a bright pink. "Out of gratitude once, I tried. He turned me down—ever so gently—because he said his heart was already taken. He's in _love_ with you, Antoinette," Giselle said, squeezing her palm. " _Only_ you. And I promise that as soon as I am able to work, I am going to pay him back for his kindness to me."

Annie nodded, suddenly feeling as if she needed air. "Giselle," she said, rising to her feet and gently handing baby Alain back to his mother, "I…I must go."

"But," the red head protested, cradling her baby close to her, "you haven't had any of your tea."

"It's…it's fine." Annie said, her head spinning. "I…I need to go."

"Alright, Antoinette," Giselle said with a smile, rising to walk her to the door. "Remember what I told you—and please don't be upset that he kept this from you."

"I…" Annie paused at the entryway, "I'm not upset, Giselle," she said, promising to visit the mother and child again, as soon as her schedule allowed.

Walking out into the night, Annie knew she had been truthful. She wasn't angry that she had not known about Giselle. But looking up at the sky, she prayed that she could decide exactly what it was that she did feel—caught up, as she was, in a tumult of churning emotions.

A graying sky above her, told her that evening was upon her. She knew that she should head back to the opera house while there was still a bit of light in the sky—before night wrapped its dark, velvety arms fully around the city of Paris. But as she set one foot in front of the other, starting out on the path, a single white rose in the garden caught her eye.

It bloomed alone—one single blossom set apart from the other flowers, completely vulnerable to wind and rain, and anything else the cruel world would throw its way. And yet it stood tall and strong—and as Annie gazed upon it in wonder, it suddenly occurred to her that this rose would glow beautifully in the moonlight.

Suddenly Annie knew exactly where it was she needed to be, and it was not the opera house. And lifting her skirts so that she could run, she was on her way.

* * *

Giles Giry yawned as the carriage turned onto the street that would lead to his home. It had been a long day of travel preceded by a long week of business and he was bone tired and numb. He had to be at the opera house in the morning—and he was sure there were a million matters waiting for his attention on his desk. Tonight, however, he could think of nothing other than a strong cocktail and a good night's sleep. His head was in his hands as the carriage rolled to a stop, and he could barely keep his eyes open as he pushed on the compartment door and exited the coach.

As soon as his feet hit the ground, however, hands were on his face. He looked up to see a lithe, figure standing before him, moonlight bouncing off her onyx hair.

"Antoinette?" he asked sleepily, wondering, for a moment, if he had fallen into a dream.

"Giles," she returned, a sweet smile illuminating her features. And without another word, she gently pulled his face down, and his lips were met with hers.

 **AN: Well! Now we know what's been going on at the cottage. Looks like this last little bit of information was enough to finally push Annie over the edge! What a way for Giles to come home from business!**

 **But Yasmin might have some new things to worry about. It is never good to be noticed by the shah...**


	57. Chapter 57

CH 57

Giles was aware of nothing except the pair of perfectly soft lips that were pressing against his. They were warm and they were sweet, and as the heady shock of the moment began to dissipate, he gradually realized that they belonged to Antoinette.

Slowly, tentatively he lifted his arms to wrap around her. Placing one hand on her upper back and the other on her waist, he drew her gently closer to him, and felt his heart skip a beat when she sighed contentedly and parted her lips slightly so that she could deepen their kiss.

Giles closed his eyes and allowed himself to get lost in the moment, sliding his lips against her languidly, letting a little groan escape when one of her hands snaked to the back of his head and her fingers tangled in his curls. He had no idea where this was coming from—he hadn't the slightest notion what was going on right now in Antoinette's mind. But he had dreamed of this moment for well over a year—and he was going to savor it.

Finally, they parted, both gasping for air, Annie's fingers still lost in Giles's curls—his arms still holding her close.

"Antoinette?" he asked her, gazing at her with a mixture of adoration and confusion.

"I've missed you Giles," she purred with a smile, her eyes sparkling in the moonlight.

"Well if I can look forward to that kind of welcome home," he said, his breathing still uneven and heavy. "I do believe I shall go away more often."

"No," Annie said sweetly, shaking her head and looking from his eyes down to his lips. "Please stay." And inclining her head, she closed her eyes and readied herself for another kiss.

A loud, gravelly noise reminded them that they were being observed. "Ahem, Monsieur Giry," the coachman said, trying to suppress a smirk. "Shall I take your bags inside?"

"Oh," Giles said, stepping slightly away from Annie, but keeping his hand on her waist. "Yes, please."

"As you wish sir," the older man said, carrying two suitcases toward the door. Giles looked apologetically at Annie when he had to let her go in order to unlock the door, but she just smiled at him to let him know it was alright.

"Where shall I place these, Monsieur?" the coachman asked as he stepped inside the entryway.

"Oh, just on the floor there, is fine," Giles informed him.

The coachman left the bags and smiled as Giles gave him his payment. "Good evening, Monsieur," he said, with a tip of his hat. "Mademoiselle." And then, with that same knowing smile plastered over his features, he mounted the coach and bid his horses carry him away.

When the man was gone, Giles looked over at Annie. "Would you like to come in, Antoinette?" he asked, extending his arm toward the parlor and gesturing for her to enter.

"I would love to, Giles," she said with a smile, walking past him into a room that held nothing but dark memories for her. The last time she had been here was when she had just received the news of Erik's demise. She had spent days existing in this place as a ghost—not sleeping, barely eating—welcoming numbness as an alternative to the overwhelming pain that assaulted her at the thought of Erik's death.

But now as she stood here, gazing at the cold hearth and the dark room before her, she remembered other small moments from her stay. The smiles with which Giles greeted her, even though she had not been able to find the strength to do anything but frown. The food that Giles never failed to offer her, even when time and again, she turned it down. The comfort that he brought to her, simply by being there and allowing her to grieve. Giles was always there—to light the way—to warm her winter—to care for her, even when she cared nothing for herself. And she had taken him for granted.

"Let me just…" Giles said, scurrying about to turn on the gas lamps that would bring a little illumination to the room. "…get us some light. Please," he gestured toward oversized cushioned chair in front of the fireplace, "make yourself comfortable. I'll just build us a fire, and…"

"Giles," Annie said, taking a seat on the settee instead of the chair, and patting the cushion next to her. "Please. Forget the fire and come sit with me. We have much to talk about."

Swallowing hard and taking a deep breath, Giles steeled himself before joining her at the settee. Still, despite his best efforts, he could not stop his hands from shaking.

"Giles," Annie asked, taking his hands in hers as he sat down next to her. "You're trembling."

"I just…" he stammered, trying to force his mouth to form the words that were trapped inside his brain. "I just don't…understand," he told her, with a nervous chuckle.

"I know," Annie said, sympathetically. "I'm sorry for shocking you like that…"

"Oh no!" Giles interjected quickly. "Don't apologize! I rather liked it," he informed her with a smile.

"I did too," she said, smiling back at him so sweetly it took his breath away.

"But where…" Giles asked softly, when he was once again able to speak. "Where did it come from?"

Squeezing his hand, Annie began, "Giles, I truly did miss you. I…told myself that I needed to have time away from you. I told myself that I needed space—to deal with my grief over Erik. But when you were gone—when I did not see you even in passing—Giles, it was torture. I was restless; I was clumsy—I think I may have driven Madame Delacroix to drink!"

"Oh heavens," Giles snickered. "I would hate to think of the things she would do with her baton when inebriated."

Annie threw her head back in laughter. " _This_ ," she said, once the giggles had left her. "This is what I missed. The way you make me laugh. The way you make me smile. Giles," she said, squeezing his hand tightly once more. "You are so _good_ , do you know that?"

"Well," he said sheepishly, somewhat embarrassed by the attention she was putting on him. "I try…"

"You _are_ , Giles," Annie said again. "I know what you did for Giselle."

"You _what_?" he asked, eyes wide with shock.

"Earlier today, Monsieur Moncharmin sent me to the cottage on an errand."

Sighing deeply, Giles muttered, "That bumbling fool."

"I am glad he did, Giles," Antoinette told him. "I got to visit with Giselle and she told me what you've been doing for her. You are a wonderful man."

"I am not, Antoinette," he shook his head. "I wouldn't have thought to help her if you had not come to me the night before she was dismissed. You made me see how unfairly she was being treated. I could do nothing to get her reinstated."

"But still—you did more than most other men would do in your position." Annie insisted. "Instead of letting her live on the streets, you gave her and her baby a place to stay. You supported her."

"It was no hardship for me," Giles said, shaking his head again. "I had the means…"

"You _had_ the heart," Annie told him with a smile. "And look at all that you have done for me. You have been my mainstay since Erik died—my anchor. I shudder to think where I would be right now without you."

"You _needed_ me, Antoinette," Giles said softly. "I could not leave you helpless."

"I _still_ need you, Giles," Annie told him, locking his eyes with hers. Lifting her hand to cup his cheek, she continued. "Not to feed me, or make sure I am sleeping, or to barter time off with Madame Delacroix. But I need your smile. I need to see that sparkle in your eyes. I need your terrible jokes to make me laugh."

"They're not really _that_ bad, are they?" Giles asked, eyebrows knit together.

"They're worse!" Annie giggled. "And I adore them. They bring me joy, Giles. _You_ bring me joy. And that is why I _need_ you in my life. And why I cannot let you go."

Annie moved closer to Giles and threw her arms around him, burying her head in his chest.

Giles closed his eyes and curled his arms around her, hugging her tightly to him, stroking his fingers through her glorious hair. Placing small kisses on the top of her head, he realized this was his dream coming true. Antoinette had come to him—she _wanted_ him—and she was currently wrapped tightly in his arms. It was everything he had wanted for the last year. And yet…

"Antoinette," he asked her, softly, releasing his hold on her just slightly. "Antoinette, look at me."

She gazed up at him with shining eyes, and he almost couldn't ask the question. But he knew that he had to. His sanity was at stake.

"Antoinette," he asked, stroking her cheek, trying to keep his voice as gentle as possible. "What about your feelings for Erik?"

A hint of sadness entered Annie's eyes, and for the first time that night, she looked scared. "I still love him, Giles," she admitted. "I think I always will. He is a large part of who I _am_." When Giles looked down, somewhat dejected, she reached out and tipped his chin up, not allowing him to look away from her. "But you, Giles, are why I am still alive. You saw me fall apart and you put me back together. And you taught me how to smile again—how to laugh—how to live. I may always love Erik, Giles—and I don't know what it will be like to love somebody else. But I want to try, Giles. I _need_ to try. Because I need you."

Giles leaned forward and captured her mouth with his own. Annie eagerly kissed him back, and his heart ached with sweetness, as she laced her fingers once more through his curls, pulling him ever closer. This truly was everything he'd hoped for—everything he'd dreamed. He kept on expecting to wake up—to find that he had, in-fact, fallen asleep on the carriage ride home, and that this whole night had been nothing more than a fabrication of his subconscious mind—cruelly teasing him by bringing his most desperate yearnings to life—knowing that Antoinette was at the very center of them.

But then, he felt her arm snaking more tightly around his waist, her bosom pressing firmly against his chest, her gentle sigh when his tongue darted playfully against the separation of her lips, and he knew it was all real. Antoinette was truly in his arms. She was actually kissing his lips. She was unquestionably sighing _his_ name.

At last they parted, Giles resting his forehead against hers as their bodies heaved once more for air. His eyes closed, Giles murmured, "I keep waiting to wake up, Antoinette. As if this was all a dream, and I'm going to open my eyes and you'll be gone..."

"It's not a dream, Giles," Annie promised, trying to steady her own breathing. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I love you, Antoinette," Giles blurted, his eyes suddenly opening and looking searchingly into hers. "I love you, and now that I have you I'm never going to want to let you go."

Annie gazed deeply into Giles's blue eyes, and she knew that the affection she felt for him knew no bounds. Yet could she admit it out loud, as he just had? She had promised Erik that no other soul would ever hear those words pass her lips. But the way Giles was looking at her—the way he made her feel... Was she ready for this? Could she do this?

"Don't let go, Giles" she said instead, feeling his arms close even more tightly around her. "I won't either."

And with tears of joy gathering in his eyes, Giles crushed her to him. "My flower," he sobbed. "My beautiful _Fleur de Lune_."

Annie snuggled closer as Giles held her tight. His embrace was different from Erik's—softer, with stockier arms that wrapped around her. But in it she felt safe—she felt warm. _She felt content._

After a long time, he released her, and Annie did finally let him build that fire, while she poured amber colored liquid into two crystal glasses. Returning to the settee, they toasted to each other, and Giles snaked his arm around her back while she snuggled close against him. And occasionally sharing gentle, loving kisses, they stayed together until the early morning hours, happily watching the flames.

* * *

"Are you absolutely certain you were _looking_ at the fruit bowl?" Erik asked, tilting his head to the side. Yasmin had brought him her first sketch of what Erik called a _still life_ —which turned out to be nothing more than fruit in a bowl. She hadn't found the assignment to be very exciting, but still, she'd sat at the dining table in the slaves' quarters and stared carefully at that bowl, pencil in hand, trying so hard to get everything just right. Her fellow serving girls had thought she'd gone mad, and the mistress just rolled her eyes. But still she had tried—until the announcement came that they had a visitor. _Then_ she had run.

"Yes, I am certain that I was looking at the bowl. Can't you tell?" she asked, looking up at him, hopefully.

"Well," Erik began, squinting his eyes and scrutinizing the drawing carefully. "I think I see a pear—maybe some grapes. Is that," he asked, moving his head closer to the picture and pointing, "a pig?"

"It is a _pomegranate_!" Yasmin snapped between clenched teeth. "Oh, it's useless!" she said, flouncing down on the floor and folding her arms across her chest. "I will never be able to draw like you do."

"Yasmin," Erik said gently, kneeling down on his side of the bars. "Come on, now, don't sulk. Learning a new skill takes time…"

"How long did it take you?" Yasmin turned to him and demanded.

"Well, I'm different…" Erik smirked, earning him a new scowl.

"Oh, Erik, couldn't you just lie to me?" she blurted, as she returned to pouting.

"I suppose I could have," Erik nodded. "I apologize for being truthful."

"Uggggh!" Yasmin groaned. "Well when you say it like that…"

Erik snickered at the girl's frustration. "It is alright, Yasmin. You may yet learn to draw. And if you don't, perhaps you have another talent."

"Well, it's not sewing," she retorted.

"No," Erik agreed, lifting his fingers to the crooked seams on the mask she had made him to wear over his gnarled features. "Perhaps not."

Yasmin shot him a glower before looking away and saying, "I might have done a better job on the pomegranate if I hadn't had to leave the dining room in such a hurry. The shah and his advisors were coming to visit and I didn't want to be anywhere near them."

Erik felt himself stiffen at the mention of the wicked man who had stolen everything from him. "I forgive you your lopsided pomegranate, then, Yasmin. The shah would make anyone wish to flee."

Yasmin nodded and said, "Especially since Kaveh has told me to always try to avoid his presence."

"Kaveh?" Erik asked, his eyebrow rising in interest. How did his little slave girl know the guard who had guided him when he'd first come to Persia?

"Yes," Yasmin nodded. "My brother." Then, shooting Erik a quizzical look, she asked, "Do you know him?"

"No," Erik shook his head, instantly deciding it would be better to deny than explain. "I am quite sure I don't."

"Alright," she said slowly.

"You would be wise to listen to your brother," Erik told her, shifting gears. "The shah is an evil, wicked man, and you are better off away from him."

"I know that," Yasmin said, not looking at him. "He killed my parents."

Eyes widening in surprise, Erik cocked his head to the side and asked, "What did you say, Yasmin?"

"I said," she repeated, turning this time to look at him, old sadness clear in her eyes. "He killed my parents."

"Why?" Erik asked softly, eager to know the story of his little slave girl's connection to the shah.

"I am not really sure myself, Erik," she said, looking off, once again, into the distance, tucking her legs up close to her body and hugging them with her arms. "I was very young—only about six. One day my ummi was bouncing me on her knee, brushing my hair—'one hundred strokes a night,' she'd always say... The next day she was gone, and Kaveh and I were locked in a room, alone and afraid. They kept us in that room for several days, and I remember crying and begging Kaveh to tell me what had happened. He finally told me that ummi and abbi had spoken out against the shah—that they had been trying to make his corruption known. And for that, the shah had decided to kill them."

"I am sorry, Yasmin," Erik said with all sincerity, truly aggrieved that his little friend had known such turmoil at such a young age.

"I know Erik. I'm sorry too—that they're gone." But then, Yasmin's face took on an expression of happiness, and she turned to Erik with a smile. "But life here has not been so bad. I was given to the slave mistress—and she has been kind, and very patient with me. The worst she does is threaten to beat me when I am saucy…"

"It is not right for her to _touch_ you!" Erik snarled, his hand curling into a fist around the bars of his cell.

"Oh, she never does, Erik," Yasmin was quick to say, calming his anger. "I said she _threatens_ beatings, but she never really does more than roll her eyes. I think she kind of likes me," Yasmin smiled.

"Well…" Erik conceded, huffing loudly as he released the tension that had seized him at the thought of Yasmin being abused. "That is alright then."

"Yes, and at least I have been able to keep in touch with my brother—who is a guard here. Kaveh…" Yasmin repeated, in case Erik had forgotten his name.

"Yes…" Erik nodded. "Kaveh."

"All in all," Yasmin said, her natural optimism shining through her eyes. "It could have been much worse. He could have killed us when we were children."

At the risk of sounding harsh, Erik found that he had to ask, "And why didn't he? The shah is not known for showing mercy."

"He didn't because it would have looked very bad for him," Yasmin explained. "My father was the shah's nephew—the shah's last living male relative. Until the shah fathers a legitimate heir, my brother is now next in line for the throne."

 **AN: WHAT did you just say, Yasmin? Next in line? You're a princess? Hmmmm...**

 **And ok, I'm sure many of you want to kill me right now, but we all know that Annie was bound to become Madame Giry at some point in time... What did you think of her explanation of her feelings toward Giles. NOT the same as her love for Erik-never the same as that. But still... he makes her happy. And that is something she has been sorely lacking...**


	58. Chapter 58

**AN: Hello Readers: OK, so I know that to some of you it seems like Annie is moving on too fast. I'm sorry if it seems like there were just days/weeks since Erik "died" as far as she knew. In my mind it's been a little longer than that. Erik's been "dead" at least 3 or so months in my calculations. I never explicitly stated that in the story, but I've tried to subtly imply it in the time passage sections. I know that's still not a long time, but, it's been about a year or so-give or take-since he's been gone. And she's been lost/miserable most of that time. Annie was not looking for Giles. She doesn't really care that he's a gentleman. Giles has been her rock and her refuge since losing Erik-and when she was without him-first when she was putting distance between them, and then when he was on his business trip-she realized how much she needed him in her life. For the record, if Erik were still around-or if she had not thought he was dead-she would NEVER even give Giles Giry a second look romantically. But he's gone-and while Giles could never REPLACE Erik-he does help her take away the pain. And from Annie's perspective, there's been so MUCH pain, that at the moment, that's what she needs. I do believe that even strong people can have weak moments, and considering all that she's been through, Annie IS weak. And, really, SOMETHING had to happen to change her from the fun, brave girl she once was to the cold, bitter, stoic Madame Giry we see in the play. Anyway, don't worry. She does not love Giles more than she loves Erik. But for now, she thinks that Erik is dead-and that a part of her is dead too. But still, there is a part of her that is trying to keep living...**

CH 58

 _They were not your lips, Erik,_ Annie thought as she lay on her little cot in the dormitory, running her first finger gently across her mouth. It had been nearly dawn when Giles dropped her back at the opera house, leaving her at the residents' entrance with yet another kiss goodnight. She had crept in, a short while ago, careful not to wake any of her fellow ballerinas who had probably succumbed to sleep hours earlier. Changing quickly into her shift, she slipped silently under her covers, hoping that a deep, restful slumber would soon take her. But here she lay, having passed at least the last hour staring at the ceiling with the evening's events replaying in her head.

Giles's kisses were soft like downy feathers beneath your head at the end of a trying day, and sweet like a drizzle of golden honey on your tongue. His lips had pressed against hers gently at first, tentatively, but then with a bit of joyful playfulness, once he had become more certain of her affections. It had left her feeling comforted, content—happy. _But Erik, they were not your lips._

She had not felt the lick of flames slinking up her legs, spreading through her core, filling her entire being with sweltering, all consuming heat. She had not been struck with that jolt of electricity that caused her extremities to tingle with excitement. There had been no inebriating rush to make her feel like she was melting, dissolving into molten desire that was strong enough to devour her very soul. _Because it wasn't you, Erik._

Annie's eyes clenched shut. For a moment the pain, hot as a branding iron, once again seared through her heart, reminding her that she would never again know the feeling of Erik's lips on hers. _What have I done, Erik?_ she wondered when the agony crested to its peak, taunting her with the fact that Erik's kiss was not the last one to have touched her lips. _Have I betrayed you, my love?_

 _No_ , the clearheaded voice of her mother broke through her mental accusations, calming the storm that was churning inside. _You have been brave enough to let yourself feel some small amount happiness—a modicum of joy—that came from someone else. If Erik loved you, as you know he did, he would never want you to suffer. He would not want you to languish through life alone. He would want you to be with someone who made you smile._

Annie felt the corners of her mouth turn up into a grin. Giles Giry definitely made her smile. He was like the fringe of snowflakes that got stuck to her eyelashes while strolling through a wintery grove—or the steaming cocoa that thawed the soul upon journey's end. He was the soft, cozy easy chair into which she longed to sink, to feel its steady warmth rejuvenating her fatigued spirit. _He is comfort to me, Erik._

Annie rolled over on her side, tucking one arm under her pillow, feeling her eyelids droop as her heart lifted. And just as sleep finally claimed her, Giles's bright shining smile flashed before her eyes, and she murmured into her pillow, "I won't let you go, Giles. I won't let go."

* * *

"I am finished," the shah muttered to the harem girl who rocked above him, breathing heavily in an effort to attain her pleasure. Having spent his own desire, he had little patience to wait around for her release, and when she did not respond immediately to his assertion, he rolled his heavy body to its side, dropping her harshly to the floor.

"I said, I was done," he growled, rising from the cushions and leaning over to gather his robe, paying the mortified, unsatisfied girl no mind.

When he was again fully dressed, he smoothed his robes and left the chamber, not even sparing a second glance for the girl who was now huddled in the corner with her arms wrapped around her bare chest—head drooping low in shame. She had done nothing to truly satisfy him anyway. She had not been the one he'd really wanted.

He'd been haunted by an apparition of the girl in the gardens all day. The perfume of her hair had teased at his thoughts, and he could not escape the laughing eyes that peered out beneath thick black lashes as she waved her lover goodbye in the soft glow of the pre-dawn morning. Did his memory deceive him, or had those eyes been green—like a Tiger's? For certainly, her delicate beauty had captivated him, entrancing him sure as any predator spellbound its prey right before the kill.

He'd told himself all day that she was young—far too young to be able to skillfully tend to his pleasures. He had to put her out of his mind—for him to take her now might be seen as an act of brutality by some—and he certainly wouldn't want to break her before she'd reached her full potential. But as evening fell, he could stand the constant buzz of her memory swirling in his mind no longer.

He'd stalked over to the slave quarters with his entourage—intent on claiming her for himself. If she was, at present, too young to satisfy his manly desires, she was certainly old enough be transferred over to the harem where she could begin her training in the arts of pleasure. As soon as she came of age, he would name her as his concubine, and she would be his until finally, his thirst for her was slacked.

But when he'd arrived at the slave house, he could not find her. He'd demanded the mistress to line all of her girls up, so that he could inspect them—never revealing, of course, the reason for him doing so. He'd walked up and down the row of females, some who were so young and shy that they bowed their heads down in a gesture of reverence, others older and more confident, but still not making eye contact with the man who ruled them. But the little vixen that haunted his fantasies was not among them.

"Are these _all_ your girls, woman?" the shah demanded harshly.

"They…" the woman had answered nervously, head bowed before him. "They are, sire."

Stepping toward her and taking her chin roughly in his hands, he lifted her head up so that she was forced to look him in the eye. "If I find that you are lying…"

"I am not, sire," the woman insisted. "I swear it!"

Letting go of her face with such force that she staggered back several steps, he spat on the floor before turning and stalking out of the building without another word, his advisors clamoring behind him. He'd charged straight to the harem, and entered without any announcement of his presence—startling the women who were gathered in a circle, gossiping and stitching to divert themselves. Plucking one of the girls up by her arm, he'd dragged her to his private room, determined to clear his mind of the mysterious enchantress's power over him. But though her servicing was artful, when he closed his eyes, luminous green orbs still stared back at him, teasing—taunting—and beckoning him to find her.

His passion quickly spent, he left the harem even more frustrated than when he had entered. He had not found the girl that had been torturing his thoughts all day—but he would not stop searching. She was more than just a specter he knew—she had been flesh and blood. And she had to be somewhere in his kingdom.

* * *

Kaveh stood in the hall of mirrors with his hands clasped behind his back, looking up at the shah as he sat alone on his throne, unaccompanied by the harem girls who usually joined him here. He had been summoned before the ruler, and upon Kaveh's arrival, the powerful man had immediately interrogated him about the whereabouts of his lover.

"I have no lover, sire," Kaveh had truthfully said, confused for the moment about the shah's meaning.

The shah rose from his mighty chair, and slowly made his way down the steps of the dais to stand before Kaveh. "Do not lie to me, dog!" he suddenly growled in anger, striking a blow at the young guard's face without warning. "I witnessed the two of you embracing in _my_ private garden with my own eyes."

Kaveh felt his blood turn to a river of ice at the shah's words. He had seen them in the garden? But how could that be? Kaveh had always been so careful to only meet with Yasmin in the cover of darkness and solitude the pre-dawn hours provided them.

Bringing his fingers to his mouth as he considered how to answer the shah's accusations, Kaveh felt a sting, and was not surprised to draw them back and see blood.

"You must be mistaking me for another man, sire," Kaveh said calmly, working hard not to betray the anxiety building inside. "As I have said, I have no lover—or female consort of any kind. I am alone, sir."

"And why should I believe you?" the shah asked, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"I have been nothing but a loyal servant to you, sire," Kaveh declared. "Why would I even be in your private garden without permission? I know that alone is a death sentence."

"It is," the shah agreed, still uncertain about Kaveh's story. The man he had seen in the garden looked so much like the guard who stood before him.

"Sire," Kaveh answered, with a dismissive chuckle. "I value my head far more than the affections of some female."

"That is true, Kaveh," the shah nodded thoughtfully. "I have always thought of you as the cowardly sort. Still," he asked, thinking the guard may yet be useful. "Do you have any idea who of your brothers in arms might have a lover with green eyes?"  
"Green eyes, sire?" Kaveh asked, pretending to be shocked. "That is highly unlikely for this part of the world. Are you sure you are not mistaken? Were you perhaps dreaming when you saw this woman?"

The shah raised his hand again but did not strike. "Do you dare to challenge me? I saw her with my own two eyes! I am sure she is real."

"You were also sure she was with me," Kaveh countered, desperate for the shah to believe he might have imagined the whole encounter. "And now you know that she was not."

"So _you_ say, guard," the shah returned, lowering his hand. "I will be continuing my search for the green-eyed woman I saw in my garden last night. She must be here somewhere and she will be found." And, leaning in closer to Kaveh's face, he added, "And _if_ she is found with you, no counsel on earth could make me agree to spare your life this time."

Kaveh swallowed hard, his gaze never flinching from the shah's. "Understood, sire," he squeezed out of a desert dry throat, praying that he could get to Yasmin in time to warn her to stay out of sight. "Might I ask," he added, trying to appear as if he were making conversation. "Why do you want to find this girl anyway?"

"She is an exotic beauty, Kaveh," the shah asked, looking out into the distance. "And she has bewitched me. I wish to place her in my harem—so that she can be my concubine."

 _Oh Yasmin_ , Kaveh thought as he looked on at the shah in horror. _Be careful_!

* * *

"Thank you, Giles," Annie said, taking the small bouquet of flowers he held out to her. "These are beautiful."

"So are you," he quipped with a smile, leaning down to place a gentle but lingering kiss on her mouth, eliciting nervous giggles from the other ballerinas who tried to pretend they were not watching the sweet exchange as they exited the rehearsal room. One might have thought after six months of witnessing such affectionate displays, the dancers would be used to it by now. Especially since Giles and Antoinette had formally begun their courtship not long after he had returned from his trip to Sweden. But the sight of their handsome young manager so smitten by one of their own was the stuff that romantic dreams were made of—and it never failed to make the other girls smile.

"I missed you, Antoinette," he murmured when he finally pulled back.

"Giles," Annie smiled, her cheeks blushing a bright pink. "It's been barely 12 hours since you dropped me off!"

"And I don't know how I survived that long," Giles responded, eyes widening dramatically. "It was torture."

Annie finally laughed and, giving him a quick peck on the cheek.

"Will you two please take your scandalous display out of _my_ rehearsal room!" Madame Delacroix demanded with a crack of her cane, as she passed with her nose in the air. "And preferably to somewhere the rest of us will not be subjected to it!"

"Oh come now, Madame," Giles countered, a smirk on his face. "Does Monsieur Delacroix never bring you flowers at the end of a long day?"

Raising an eyebrow and flashing him a tight smile, Madame informed him, "Monsieur Delacroix has the good sense to display his affections to me _in private_ —an example I would highly suggest you follow, Monsieur Giry."

Giving her a conciliatory nod, Giles admitted, "Fair enough, Madame." Turning to Annie and extending his arm, he asked, "Shall we, my dear? I have made dinner reservations."

Flashing an apologetic smile at the irritated ballet mistress, she placed her hand on the crook of Giles's arm, saying "Yes, lets."

And with an exasperated sigh, Madame Delacroix watched them go.

As soon as they were out of the older woman's view, Giles pulled his arm in toward his body, effectively drawing Annie closer. She rested her head against his shoulder as they made their way to the dormitories.

"I shall be quick," she told him, when they had reached the door. "I just have to run in and change, and drop these beauties," she said, gesturing toward the flowers he had given her, "in water." Then taking a deep whiff of the bouquet, she glanced at him with shining eyes, saying, "I love them, Giles."

"And I love you, Antoinette," he murmured in return, before swooping low and capturing her lips with his. The kiss was deeper and longer than the one they had shared in the rehearsal room, and they were both breathless when they finally parted.

"I'll be back, Giles," she told him with a coy smile, slipping inside the door.

Giles felt the smile fade slightly from his face as she disappeared into the dormitories to make herself ready for the night that lay before them. He had hoped that this evening, of all evenings, she might be able to return his words, declaring her love for him in no uncertain words. He had lost count of how many times he had told her that he loved her in the six months they had officially been a couple, but she had never once, in all that time, been able to return his words to him, preferring to declare her affections with the promise that she was never going to let him go.

Yet, Giles knew he could not complain. Since that night, six months ago, she had been very clear about her feelings for him, showering him with affection, always choosing to spend whatever free time she had with him. It had made him so proud, at the opening of the new season, to have her on his arm all evening long at the gala celebration. Some of the patrons and other guests had been a bit surprised to see a manager escorting the lead dancer to the ball—especially since Giles had recently been linked with the noble Lady Sophia. But Annie's grace and elegance, both on stage and off, quickly charmed them—particularly one visiting violinist from Sweden who greeted the couple with great fondness.

"So Monsieur Giry," the white haired musician had said with a smile, after Giles had introduced Annie as his companion. "This is the lovely young lady who tried to teach my daughter how to waltz."

Narrowing her eyes, Annie glanced from the kindly looking gentleman back to Giles. "Pardon me?" she asked, thoroughly confused as to what the man meant.

With a smile, Giles asked, "Antoinette, do you remember that day in the park—when we came across the young boy who'd asked us to teach his little friend how to dance?"

"Yes," Annie nodded, reaching back in her memory to picture the mousy little girl with long curly hair. "Christine was her name…wasn't it?"

"That it was," the violinist said robustly.

"That little girl," Giles informed her, "is Monsieur Dáae's daughter."

Eyes widening into a smile, Annie looked over at the musician. "What a strange coincidence that we would have met your daughter in the park!"

The man nodded his agreement. "We were visiting friends in Paris—and she and their youngest son had run off to play together. When she came back to us, she was filled with tales of a beautiful couple who had taught them how to waltz—and taught little Raoul how to be a gentleman. She had been so excited by the adventure—she couldn't wait to show off her new skills at the party we attended that evening. She kept Raoul on the dance floor all night!"

"Oh!" Annie said, her smiled widening even further. "I'm so glad she enjoyed herself. But I must say," Annie added, leaning in conspiratorially, "I wish she could find herself a better dance partner. That little boy was awful!"

Monsieur Dáae gave a hearty guffaw. "I tell her that all the time! But she is loyal to him because of the one day when he saved her favorite red scarf from getting lost in the ocean. Dove right in to grab it after a sea breeze blew it away from her. For that, he has her undying gratitude." Rolling his eyes, he added, "I could have just gotten her a new scarf!"

The three of them shared a laugh then, until Giles heard the band begin to play. "Well, Monsieur Dáae," Giles interjected. "I do believe it is time to steal my lady away for a dance. Enjoy yourself at the gala, and please do consider my offer."

"I shall consider it, Monsieur Giry," Dáae nodded. "However, I must tell you, Paris has never felt like a home to me. I just do not know if I am ready to leave Sweden."

"Well," Giles said, reaching over and shaking the man's hand. "Just think about it. We'd love to have you."

Giles had led Antoinette out on to the dance floor then, and they had spent the rest of the evening in one another's arms. It had felt so good and so right to be holding her close, that several times he found himself biting back the words he intended to say to her tonight. He had known, however, that it was imperative for him to wait until she was ready before he asked her to spend the rest of her life with him.

Giles had been certain early on in their courtship that he would never feel about another woman the way he felt about Antoinette. He had been with many members of the fairer sex in his day, and he had endeavored to treat all of them well. Yet none of them had inspired the level of care and protectiveness he felt for Antoinette. None of them had made his heart swell with such sweetness, or his body burn with such desire. He had never been in love before, and yet, he had realized, from the start, that he loved Antoinette with all of his heart—and he wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life showing her just how much he adored her and making her smile. And he fully intended to tell her that tonight, after dinner—but was she ready to hear it? Was it the right time?

"I'm ready, Giles," came the words to break him out of his thoughts.

He had not even heard Antoinette come out of the dormitories, but there she was, standing before him, wearing a long dinner dress, the color of dusty rose. White lace trimmed the neckline, and a little cluster of silk roses cinched the bodice tightly at the waist. She had pulled her long hair into a loose chignon, a few tendrils hanging down to curl around her face.

"Antoinette," Giles said, breathlessly. "You are exquisite."

Annie's cheeks grew rosy as she smiled and said, "Thank you, Giles."

Under their own volition, Giles's arms pulled Annie close, and he tilted her head up so that he could kiss her. Annie sighed and moved her mouth against his, as he deepened their kiss and traced her lips with his tongue.

"Giles," Annie said, pulling her mouth away from his, but still remaining in his arms. "We're going to miss dinner."

"Antoinette," Giles murmured in a low hum. "If I could spend the rest of the night kissing you like this, I wouldn't miss a thing."

"Giles!" Annie giggled nervously, pulling her head back as he began to swoop low one more time to resume where they had left off. "I'm hungry."

 _So am I,_ he thought, but did not say. Antoinette was a lady, and she deserved to be treated as such. He had to keep his desire for her at bay. He would not even try to increase the intimacy of their relationship until after she had become his wife. And hopefully, after this night, they would both be able to look joyfully forward to that day.

He took a deep breath and tried to steady his emotions before looking at her with a bright smile. Giving her one last squeeze, he said, "Come my sweet. Let me take you to dinner."

Their meal was delicious, and the conversation delightful. Each time Antoinette laughed, it made Giles's heart thrill, which was why he worked so hard to make it happen. He did not care if the world looked at him as a fool, if only Antoinette looked at him with joy in her eyes.

After dinner, Giles asked her sweetly, "Would you take a walk with me in the park, Antoinette? I find that I am not ready to let the evening end."

With a smile, she nodded, and arm in arm, they walked out into the night. They soon came upon the little park where they had run into each other over a year before—the day Giles met up with Annie while walking home from the post office. The park was much emptier than it had been on that day, with only a few couples strolling together in the moonlight. With Antoinette resting her head upon his shoulder, Giles led them to the small bridge that overlooked the pond.

"The park is so lovely at night, Giles," Annie said, gazing out at the silvery reflection of the moonlight on the water. Feeling his hand rest on the middle of her back, Annie took in a deep breath and sighed it out contentedly, snuggling a little closer to the sweet man next to her.

"Anywhere is lovely," Giles responded, his voice a little shaky. "As long as you are beside me."

Tilting her head up to look in his eyes, Annie intended on placing a gentle kiss on his lips. But when she saw the apprehension in his eyes, she immediately began to worry.

"What is it, Giles?" she asked with concern. "What has you so nervous?"

"Nothing," Giles said, shaking his head, but then, breathing out heavily, changed his answer to "Everything." Turning to her, and taking her hands in his, he looked her straight in the eyes and said, "Antoinette, I love you with all of my heart. I fell for you from the moment I saw you, and my feelings for you have only grown every moment that we have been together since. I can say now, with every certainty, that I will never stop feeling this way—but that I will only love you more tomorrow than I do today, and even more the day after that. Antoinette Laramie please," he beseeched her, releasing her hands and getting down on one knee. He reached into his pocket to retrieve a beautiful gold and diamond ring, and holding it out before her with both hands, he asked, "Marry me."

Annie gasped when she heard the words come out of his mouth—the echoes of other words that had been spoken long ago, in another lifetime— _I have no ring to offer you, Annie—no trinket with which to plight my troth. But still, I ask you now to make me the happiest man ever to live, by agreeing to be my wife._ She felt her breathing go erratic, and she swayed a little on her feet as she recalled her answer to those words. _I am yours, Erik. Forever, I shall be yours._ Certainly her answer now could not be the same…

Sensing her unsteadiness, Giles leapt to his feet, taking her in his arms and guiding her to the little bench behind them.

"Are you alright, Antoinette?" he asked her, his eyes full of worry.

 _No_ she thought. "Yes, Giles," she said, trying to get her breathing under control. "I will be fine."

"Do you need to see a doctor?" he asked. "If you promise to just wait here," he said, starting to rise from the bench, "I can go get you some help."

"No Giles," she insisted. "I was just…just _startled_ , is all." She looked down at her hands clenched tightly in her lap. "I…wasn't expecting your proposal."

"I…" Giles said, looking down, dejected, "I am sorry if I caused you distress. I just…"

"You deserve better than me, Giles," Annie interjected, stopping his needless apology.

Giles looked at her in confusion. "What are you saying, Antoinette? You are everything I've ever dreamed of in a woman. Beautiful, talented, intelligent, compassionate…"

"I am not a virgin, Giles," she spat out, unable to look him in the eyes. "Before he left…Erik and I…" her voice trailed off, and she could not continue. "You…" she said, swallowing hard, "you have always treated me every bit as a gentleman should treat a lady, but I cannot give you my purity—and I know that is a prize that husbands treasure."

Tipping her head up, so that he could look in her eyes, he said, "I, Giles Giry, treasure _you_ , Antoinette Laramie. I do not care that you have known the touch of a man. I am untouched either. I know about your past, Antoinette, and I can say with certainty that you gave your virtue honestly and purely out of love—which, I am sorry, I cannot even say about myself. I am not looking to acquire some highly sought after commodity, or be awarded with some lucrative business deal. I only desire to commit myself to the one woman I have ever loved—the one woman I could not stop loving if my life depended on it. And I vow to you that if you give me the gift of your _self_ I will do everything in my power to be worthy of such a prize. I swear I will cherish you always, and spend the rest of my life making you feel like the precious jewel that you are to me."

Annie felt tears spilling out of her eyes. "I…I would only want to be a good wife to you, Giles. But I don't know if I know how…"

"We would learn together, Antoinette," Giles assured her, stroking her cheek gently. "How to be good spouses for _each other_. For my greatest desire is to be a good husband to you."

Annie closed her eyes tightly against the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. She had dreamed so often, in the last few years, about being a bride—but in those dreams the groom waiting to hear her vows had hair black as night and a white mask covering the dearest face she had ever known. _I am sorry, Erik_ , she told him in her heart, and she prayed that somehow, his soul could hear her. _I'm sorry, my sweet angel._

"Then I will marry you, Giles," Annie said tearfully, holding her left hand out to Giles. "And we will learn together."

Without a word, Giles took Annie's hand in his. Placing the ring on the fourth finger, he lifted her hand to his lips and bestowed it with a kiss before looking at her and saying, "I love you, Antoinette."

And pulling her tightly into his arms, he held her as she whispered back, "I will never let you go, Giles." And glancing over her fiancé's shoulders into the moonlit night, an image of golden eyes flashed before her.

 _A promise made. A promise broken._

 **AN: A Promise made, a promise broken indeed!**


	59. Chapter 59

**AN: Sorry it has been so long since my last update. BUSY busy busy...**

CH 59:

"Kaveh?" Yasmin called in a loud whisper as she arrived at the crossroads near the Mazandaran city limits. Her brother's instructions had been very clear. She was to meet him here as soon as the clock struck midnight—but she had no idea why. She looked around, but could not see him. "Kaveh?" she called again, slightly louder. "Are you here?"

"Yes, I am here," came the exasperated reply, as her brother reached his arm out from behind a building and pulled her to stand behind it with him. "And if you are not quiet, the entire palace guard will be here as well!"

Yasmin looked at her brother as if he had finally gone completely, stark raving mad. "Kaveh," she asked in complete confusion. "What on earth are you talking about? Why would the Palace Guard be out here? And what was so urgent that you needed to see me—and why all the way out here instead of in the garden like we usually do?"

Moving in closer to her, Kaveh placed his hands on her shoulders—but he was not certain if it was to steady her or himself before speaking his news. Lowering his voice to a barely audible hum, he said, "Yasmin, the garden is no longer safe. The shah saw us there, together, the last time we met."

Yasmin's eyes widening, she muttered, "Oh." She knew this was not good—as it was not permitted for anyone to be in the gardens without a direct invitation from the shah. It had been risky meeting there, but they'd assumed that because it was off limits, no one would find them there. They certainly hadn't been expecting the shah himself to be the one to discover them.

"Yes," he nodded, emphatically. "And when he saw us, Yasmin…" Kaveh struggled to get the next words out, since in his eyes, his sister was still a little girl. "…he took note of…well…of you."

Yasmin's eyes narrowed, and she pulled her head back a bit, not understanding her brother's meaning. "What are you talking about, Kaveh? Speak plainly."

Taking a deep breath, Kaveh huffed, "He found you very beautiful, Yasmin, and he wishes to place you in the Harem as his concubine."

Yasmin flinched back at his words. "B…b…but that's…" she wrapped her arms around her chest in a protective gesture. "That's disgusting. I am barely thirteen years old, and he…he's far older than abbi was."

"He has never been known for his moral code, Yasmin," Kaveh responded. "You know he is a sick man. That was one of the reasons that abbi and ummi tried to oppose him."

"Kaveh, what do we do?" Yasmin asked, horrified.

"You must keep yourself hidden, Yasmin," Kaveh told her firmly. "You must take pains to never allow yourself to be seen by the shah or his closest men."

"I will try my best…" Yasmin replied.

"You must do more than try!" Kaveh spat. "Confine yourself to the slave house, and stay away from the public square."

"I mostly do that now," Yasmin answered.

"If you must go out," Kaveh added, reaching into a satchel he had tied around his waist. "You must always wear this."

In his hand he was holding a headdress—one that could wrap around her face several times—effectively concealing her identity. "Well, this will make it easy for me to go undetected," expressing the relief she felt at the obscuring garment.

"Do not let your guard down, Yasmin!" Kaveh insisted, holding up a finger in warning. "The shah will not give up searching for you easily. And that veil will not hide your most identifiable feature!"

Yasmin narrowed her eyes at him quizzically. "What do you mean, Kaveh?"

"Your eyes, Yasmin," Kaveh told her. "He will know you by your eyes. So keep them downcast and trust no one. From this point forward, never allow yourself to be seen without the veil.

* * *

"You look beautiful, Antoinette!" Giselle gasped in awe, bouncing Alain on her knee to keep him occupied as Annie stepped out from behind the boutique's modesty screen. The shop's proprietress smiled widely when she saw her all decked out in the latest fashion Paris had to offer.

"I hate it!" Annie grumbled, looking down at the ivory eyesore she was wearing. "I feel ridiculous!"

"How on earth could you hate it, Antoinette?" Giselle asked, sparing a quick glance at the saleswoman, whose face had just gone pale in dismay. "It is the very pinnacle of fashion!"

Surveying the rows of ruffles and satin ribbons that rested over what seemed like countless layers of crinolines, Antoinette knew her friend was right. Still, it did not change the way she felt about the dress.

"It's just not… _me_ …Giselle," Annie struggled to explain.

"Mademoiselle," the flustered shopkeeper cut in, having finally recovered from the shock of her customer not being instantly enamored by one of her finest pieces. "Would you care to tell me what type of dress _would_ be more… _you_?"

Annie gazed at her reflection in the mirror with a defeated expression and wondered if she could even answer that question. In truth, Annie had never given much thought to a wedding gown. She hadn't been the type of girl who'd dreamed of her wedding day. She'd never wanted to get married, having seen her mother left a widow by her beloved first husband, and then horribly abused by her second. True, she'd been overjoyed at the idea of becoming Erik's wife, but that was not because she'd wanted a husband. It was because she'd wanted Erik. Forever. Without him, the idea of a wedding seemed awkward— _foreign_. She just wasn't sure how to be the excited bride on a search for the dress of her dreams, when her own wedding dreams had died.

Taking a deep breath and shaking her head, she reminded herself that this _was_ Giles's dream—and even though he was not Erik, she _did_ care for him—even _love_ him. Certainly it was different—she knew it would never be possible to recapture the connection she'd had with her beloved angel. He had truly been her soul mate, and they had shared a love that could only be captured once in a lifetime—if a person were lucky.

But Giles was kind, and Giles was sweet. And he was oh so _very_ good to her. He never failed to make her smile, and just thinking of him was already making her heavy heart feel lighter. She may not care a whit about this wedding gown, but she cared about Giles. So she had to try.

"Mademoiselle…?" the proprietress prodded, eager to try to help her indecisive young customer find a dress that would be satisfactory to her tastes.

"Perhaps something a bit…simpler?" Annie responded. "With fewer ruffles and ribbons?"

"Of course, Mademoiselle," the shopkeeper gave Annie a tight smile and a nod, slipping off to find something that might be a bit more suitable, muttering under her breath about the lack of fashion sense in some brides.

* * *

"Why are you wearing that?" Erik asked with knit eyebrows as Yasmin came through the door to bring him his breakfast. He had grown to look forward to her visits several times a day, and had been waiting for her to arrive. He was perplexed, however, to see her appear wearing a long headscarf which had been wrapped several times around her face to nearly completely conceal her identity.

"Kaveh gave it to me," Yasmin said, quickly setting down Erik's tray and rising to unwrap her veil. "He said it was for my protection."

Rising from his spot on the dirt floor, Erik came closer to where she stood, curling his fingers around the bars of his cell. "Why do you need protection, Yasmin?" he asked in concern. "What has happened?"

With a heavy sigh, Yasmin recounted the tale Kaveh had told her during their clandestine meeting at the city limits. "They are searching for me, Erik," she ended her tale, wrapping her arms tightly around her chest. "I don't understand how the shah can look at me and think I'm some kind of rare beauty. Especially when compared to the women he already has in his harem, I am just a child."

Erik took a good look at his friend, at the girl who had been his caretaker for over a year. He began to see the ways in which she was beginning the slow transformation into womanhood. She truly was quite lovely, still, Erik knew her real beauty lay inside—in the soul that allowed her to minister, with such care, to a lowly criminal condemned to the dungeon for the rest of his days. Though her physical appearance might be maturing, her spirit was young—innocent—and, as she herself said, she was barely more than a child.

Remembering the shah's lecherous ways with the women of the harem, Erik's blood began to boil. "The shah is a depraved and twisted man, Yasmin," he snarled, his fingers turning white due to their tightness on the bars. "There is nothing he likes better than to find something pure and good and corrupt and pollute it until it is no more than a barely recognizable perversion of itself. You must be certain to follow your brother's advice at all times. Stay away from him, Yasmin. Men like the shah are poison. Believe me, I know. My Annie was attacked by a predator like him once, and it almost destroyed her."

Yasmin's eyes grew wide in shock. "Annie? What do you mean?"

Erik swallowed hard, and his eyes grew dark with the pain of the memory. "It was when she was about your age, Yasmin. One night, her stepfather made advances upon her. When she refused him, he intended to take her by force."

Yasmin covered her mouth with her hand. "Oh no Erik," she gasped. "What happened?"

Closing his eyes, against the scene that was replaying in his mind, he continued. "Luckily, I was not far away, having decided to stay close to the cottage that night, because I was worried about her. I heard…her screams," he forced the words from his mouth with a strangled voice. "The door was locked. I…I couldn't open it. By the time I broke it down, he had her on the floor—her dress torn. He was lying on top of her, just about to violate her, and I…I…" Erik's voice trailed off, his face contorted with the agony of the memory. His breathing came in heavy puffs as he relived that moment—the moment he became a murderer.

"You what, Erik?" Yasmin asked breathlessly, both horrified and captivated by his gruesome tale.

"I killed him, Yasmin." Erik finally said, his eyes fixed on some far off vision. "I tore him away from her and I snapped his neck."

"Oh," Yasmin said looking down, the horror of his tale washing over her and making her shiver.

"Yes," Erik said soberly. "And now you know the first step I took on the path of death that led me here. But you must promise me that you will heed your brother's word—and stay hidden—out of sight of the shah and his men. If he finds you, he _will_ take you—regardless of the fact that you are a child. And Yasmin, I will not be able to protect you."

* * *

Erik sat on the floor of his cell long after Yasmin had gone, just staring out into the darkness. She would be upset, when she returned, to find that he had not eaten his breakfast—but he found that he simply had no appetite, and that the very thought of food made his stomach threaten to rebel. Nourishment was the last thing on his mind. Only one thought ran, unfettered, through his tormented brain. _Annie_. How was his Annie?

"My God, Annie," he groaned in anguish, raking his fingers through his hair. "It has been so long."

Almost 2 years had passed since he'd last seen her smile, heard her voice, felt her almost unbearably exquisite touch before leaving for Monaco. As he'd spent this last year rotting in this accursed cell, it had been easy to convince himself that she was far better off without him. He had been twisted into a depraved and wicked creature by the shah, committing murder and torturing already afflicted souls until they begged for death. She deserved so much more than that. She was worthy of all that was good and right and beautiful in this world. _But did she still think of him?_

With a huff, he rose and walked over to the corner of his cell where he kept the sketchbook and pencils Yasmin had brought him. Sitting back down, he began to leaf through the pages. It was nearly filled with drawings of his beloved—Annie smiling, Annie dancing, Annie's body reclined in slumber. "I miss you, Annie," he whispered, leaning his head against her forehead so lovingly reproduced on the page. "I miss you so much."

Sniffing deeply, he lifted his head to look down at the page once more, to see Annie's eyes gazing back at him with a look of love. "How is it that I have lived this long without you?"

Turning to a clean page, Erik lifted a pencil from the ground and began to write.

 _My Dearest Annie:_

 _It has been too long—far too long—since I have set pencil to paper to write you the words I wish to speak in person. It is still such an imperfect form of communication, and yet, it is all I have. I must release these thoughts that weigh on my soul in the hopes that somehow your heart will hear them._

 _My heart aches every second that I am without you. Not a day has gone by that I have not thought of you, and dreamed of the years we spent together. Visions of you are what keep me alive—the memory of your vibrant smile filling my spirit with the warmth it needs to survive this cold, harsh captivity._

 _And yet, it is not enough—never enough. I long to see you dance—to watch you do that for which you were born, laying all of Paris low with your extraordinary talent as you lead the dance at the Palais Garnier. I yearn to see your beautiful eyes instead of just remembering them—to hear the melody of your voice—to feel your miraculous touch that both burns my body with the fever of desire, and cools it with blessed, gentle comfort. I crave the softness of your lips—your kiss breathing life into my broken, weakened body and making me whole again. I hunger for this, Annie. I thirst for it._

 _But I know that it shall never be. You will never read the words that I write upon this page. I will never be able to return to you, and know that wherever we are, I am at home. But know this, Annie. You are never alone. Wherever you go, you carry my heart—my love surrounds you always. You are endlessly in my mind—in my heart. You, Antoinette Laramie, will forever own my soul._

 _I love you, Annie. Now, and always._

 _E_

Erik placed the pencil back on the ground, and carefully closed the cover of the book. Drawing his knees up to his chest, keeping the book close to his heart, Erik wrapped his arms around himself and wept.

 **AN: UGH, Poor Erik!**


	60. Chapter 60

CH 60:

 _The birds were singing, the sun was high in the sky, and the fragrance of roses wafted on the air. To Annie, the world glowed white, her vision obscured as it was beneath her gauzy white veil. She could not really see the guests gathered on either side of her, nor the flower petals strewn beneath her feet, but none of that mattered. The path was straight before her, and at its end, she knew, waited the man with whom she had sworn to share her life. She was ready to give herself to him—she had been ready for a long time. She only had to travel this last, short stretch of road, before she would become his wife._

 _She could just make out her groom's hazy outline waiting in the distance, and with sure footing, and a rustle of her skirts, she set herself on her way. Step by step, she drew closer to her destiny—to the man who would forevermore own her heart. She felt joy deep within her soul, hope for the future, and so much love that she knew her heart would surely burst with its fullness._

 _He squeezed her hands gently when she reached the end of the path, and all nature held its breath in anticipation as, with trembling fingers, he lifted her veil. The sun glinted off of his flowing black hair, and his golden eyes shimmered when he gazed upon her and sighed, "Annie."_

 _"Finally, my angel," she whispered in return, her own eyes growing wet with unshed tears. "I shall be yours."_

"Antoinette," Giselle asked, as she pulled the comb through Annie's hair. "Can you tilt your head just a little to the left please?"

"Yes," Annie said, snapping out of her daydream with a jolt. "Of course." She turned her head the way Giselle had requested, and looked at her reflection in the mirror. Rouge had been applied to her cheeks, and a berry stain to her lips. Giselle was furiously arranging her thick black mane into a stylish upsweep, into which she would weave the delicate orange blossoms that, along with the white dress and veil still hanging in the corner, would signify her status as pure, virginal—bride.

It was her wedding day—the day she would swear to love and honor Giles Giry until death did them part. She would vow to be a good wife to him in sickness and in health—in richer and in poorer—in good times and in bad. She would promise to bear him children, and to raise them with him as a family. She would swear to forsake all others. But even now, as she teetered on the very precipice of married life, she still saw Erik whenever she closed her eyes, and she wondered what power death truly had to break a bond forged in love.

"It is going to be a beautiful day, Antoinette," Giselle remarked, fastening another ebony wave with a pearl tipped hairpin. "And you are going to look so beautiful walking down the aisle of St. Roch's, with Monsieur Giry waiting for you at the altar."

Annie gave her a tight smile in the mirror, saying, "Thank you, Giselle," before averting her eyes to look out the window.

"Are you alright, Antoinette?" Giselle asked, reaching for a few of the citrusy scented blossoms, noting the tense look on her friend's face.

Annie gave a weak chuckle saying, "Nothing more than wedding day jitters, Giselle. I suppose it's normal for a bride to be a bit nervous before she meets her groom."

"That is what I've heard," Giselle agreed, affixing the fragrant blooms at random points in Annie's hair. "But truly, if there was ever a bride who did not have to worry about her groom's affections, it is you. Monsieur Giry adores you, Antoinette. He always has. You could walk down that aisle in sackcloth, and still, there would be no woman in the world who could hold a candle to your beauty in his eyes."

Annie's lips curved into a true grin then, laughing a bit as she asked, "Then why have you been working so hard on my hair?"

"Because," Giselle answered, with a wistful smile, "for all his goodness, Monsieur Giry deserves an angel, sent straight from heaven." Setting down the brush, satisfied with her efforts at last, Giselle stood a bit taller and admired her work before adding, "And in you he has found one."

Annie once again regarded her reflection in the mirror. She'd had an angel. A darkly beautiful, battle-scarred angel, who'd fought for and protected her with all of his being. He'd cared for her with gentleness and loved her with the ferocity of the storm that had raged endlessly behind his golden eyes. Nothing would have made her happier than to reside within the shelter of his wings forever.

But death had taken her angel, and just when the world seemed bleakest without him, heaven had sought fit to send her a new angel. This one was born of light, containing a bit of the sun itself within his smiling eyes. He enveloped her in new, soft wings, melting the ice that loss had lodged around her heart, causing it to beat again. With his warmth—with his brightness—he caused new love to blossom. Nothing could ever replace her dark angel—but with his gentleness and his joy, her new angel had guided her into the light, lifting her heart from the depths of despair, and marking her as his own.

And yet…when she closed her eyes, she still saw the darkness, beckoning her to return—even though she knew there was no one waiting there in the shadows.

So with her heart still aching for the loss of the old, she determined that this day she should keep her eyes wide open as she promised herself to Giles. "I shall try to be his angel, Giselle," Annie said with resolves, her eyes meeting her attendant's in the mirror. "For Giles deserves nothing less."

With a smile, Giselle responded, "You will make him so happy! But first," she added with a twinkle in her eye. "It is time to get dressed."

* * *

The Church ceremony was short and sweet, and Giles did indeed beam as he saw Annie walking toward him in her silk dress, her long white veil trailing behind her. All of Annie's trepidations melted away when she saw how his eyes shone as he spoke his vows. For all of her nerves and worry, she knew that as long as she could gaze into those two breathtaking pools of blue, she would be all right. "I do," she answered with hope and faith in her new husband when it was her turn to promise her heart.

After the priest gave his blessing, Giles swept her into his arms, and kissed her soundly for all the Church to see—sealing their promises publically as she knew they would seal them privately later that night. She felt a bit of unease as that thought flowed through her consciousness, but when Giles pulled away from the kiss and smiled at her, all her worries melted away.

Hand in hand, they walked from the Church to a waiting carriage, as their guests threw bits of wheat to ensure their prosperity. As the coach carried them to their grand reception, which would be held in the foyer of the opera house, Giles gathered Annie once again into his arms.

"I love you, Madame Giry," he whispered huskily, pure joy glowing in his eyes.

 _Madame Giry_. It would take her awhile to get used to her new name—a name she'd earned when she'd vowed to be Giles's wife. It felt strange to be called by a new name—almost as if by becoming a wife she had also become an entirely new person, forced to give up the person she used to be.

 _If you had married Erik, the thought came to her, unbidden, you would have remained who you always were—Antoinette Laramie._

But steeling herself against that unhelpful musing, Annie simply smiled, as she tilted her head to receive his kiss.

The reception was perhaps the most festive event the Palais Garnier had hosted yet. Yards and yards of gauzy bridal style ribbon adorned the grand staircase, with sweet, elegant music wafting down on the party from the string quartet assembled on the balcony. The foyer was teeming with roses, mums, gardenias and orchids—all a creamy white and filling the air with an intoxicating perfume. Waiters in formal wear circulated among finely attired guests with their trays of hors d'oeuvres and flutes of champagne, happy chatter and laughter filling the air all around the room.

" _Congratulations_ , congratulations," Monsieur Moncharmin exclaimed excitedly, as he and Richard approached the happy couple on the dance floor to extend their congratulations. Obviously having consumed one too many of the offered flutes, Moncharmin Patted Giles collegially on the upper arm, stating, "You've got yourself a beautiful bride—one who is the envy of the all unmarried women in Paris, for snatching up one of the city's most eligible bachelors." Then, grasping Annie's hands warmly he added, "Mademoiselle Laramie…Oh!" he chuckled and amended his words, "—Excuse me, _Madame Giry_ —your husband broke many hearts today."

Giles flashed Richard an alarmed look, and opened his mouth to put an end to his colleague's inappropriate remarks. But before he could, Moncharmin leaned in a bit closer to Annie, and whispered conspiratorially, "Rumor has it the Lady Sophia is inconsolable. She always thought Monsieur Giry would one day see the wisdom of having her as a lifelong social ally and give her a ring. But you know what they say about cows who give away the milk for free…"

"Monsieur Moncharmin!" Giles cut in sharply, aghast at the man's lack of decorum. "This is really not the place to discuss your ideas on animal husbandry! The only heart I care about at all from this point forward is that of my lovely bride. There is no need to mention any others," he continued, his voice growing softer as he turned to gaze into her eyes, "for she is everything to me."

With a warm smile, Richard remarked, "That has been obvious for quite some time, Monsieur Giry." Then, clasping Moncharmin by the shoulder, he said, "Let's go find some food to put in your mouth so that you can stop shoving your foot in it!" With a polite nod, he added, "Congratulations, you two. May you have years of happiness." And then, physically turning Moncharmin in the direction of the buffet table, Richard led him away.

When the managers were gone, Giles turned back to Annie, taking her in his arms to continue the dance, and said, "I hope you don't pay any mind to what that buffoon was saying."

"Oh, was he talking?" Annie asked with an innocent bat of her eyelashes. "I couldn't be sure. All I heard were vague monkey like vocalizations."

With a wide smile spreading over his lips, Giles giggled as he kissed her muttering, "You heard exactly right, my dear."

When their dance was done, Annie smiled sweetly at Giles, excusing herself to go freshen up in the powder room. As she was adjusting a few curls that had fallen out of her upsweep to frame her face, the door to the washroom opened, and in came a face she thought she would never see again, and would have loved to forget.

"My my, Antoinette," the buxom blonde said, regarding Annie's reflection in the mirror. "Fancy running into you here!"

Stiffening, and standing to her full height, Annie smiled tightly and said, "Well, it is my wedding, Babette. And since you are the one who was actually dismissed from your job here, might I enquire as to what you are doing in attendance?"

Babette smiled at her, sickly sweet, as she answered, "Well, I am accompanying Monsieur Jacques

Normandeau. He is a great lover of the arts and was just fascinated to hear that I used dance here."

"Oh, well that's just lovely," Annie responded. "However, I will warn you that the Count and his family are in attendance. You might want to be certain to steer Monsieur Normandeau away from him. You never know when Philippe might want to reminisce about the good ol' days."

Babette cocked her head to the side, a look of sheer malice entering into her eyes and belying the sweetness of her smile. "Thank you for the advice, Antoinette. Now I have some for you. It's not really very becoming of you to be wearing orange blossoms in your hair. Brides only wear them to symbolize their virginity, and…well…it's not like anyone believed you and Monsieur Giry were just friends."

Annie looked at her former rival, feeling the sting of her comments, but not for the reasons the vindictive woman imagined. "You know, Babette," she began, sweetly, but with the undercurrent of the animosity that had always been between them growing with every word. "Giles and I really weren't sleeping together back before you lost your job here for making a public spectacle of yourself on the stage with the count's son. I know you were jealous of me because you thought we were, and you'd always wanted him for yourself, but truly, he never touched me back then."

Then taking a step closer, and abandoning even the pretense of a smile, Annie continued. "But we _will_ be sleeping together now, Babette. I _will_ have him in my bed. I _will_ get to feel him moving within me. I _will_ get to hear his cries of ecstasy. And I will know—beyond the shadow of a doubt—that I am the only woman on his mind and in his heart. Not only because he tells me every chance he gets—not only because _his_ ring circles _my_ finger—but because he will show me—by making love to me. Every. Single. Night. For the rest of my life." Lifting a finger to her hair, she added, "I would offer you these orange blossoms—because heaven knows that after tonight, I will no longer need them. But then again—you can't use them either. But I'm sure Monsieur Normandeau probably already knows that."

Looking a moment longer at the absolutely stunned former ballerina, Annie allowed a crooked smirk to lift the corner of her lips as she said, "Goodnight, Babette. I have to return to my husband now. He misses me terribly when I'm gone too long." Walking past Babette, she began to push the door open to take her leave. But pausing, she looked back over her shoulder, and added, "Before I go, I do have another little piece of advice for you. If you ever want to see a ring of your own, you might want to start playing hard to get. After all, you know what they say about the cows that give away their milk for free."

* * *

Giles and Annie left the party after cutting their cake, and tenderly feeding each other the first bit of sweets they would consume in their married lives.

"This is delicious, Giles," Annie had remarked as she tasted the light and airy confection her husband placed carefully in her mouth. "The baker truly outdid himself."

"It is nothing compared to your sweetness, Antoinette," Giles told her, closing his lips as she fed him the cake, licking bits of frosting off her fingers. Seeing the way she trembled at his gesture, he leaned in to whisper in her ear that it was time to go. "I wish to be alone with my bride," he murmured.

"Then let us take our leave, dear husband," Annie responded, feeling slightly breathless at the hungry look in his eyes. "For I too have had my fill of the crowd."

They said their farewells—Annie tossing her bouquet to the crowd as they made their exit—and settled into the coach, where sweet kisses and gentle caresses passed the time until they arrived at Giles's—their—home. When the carriage stopped, Giles wasted no time lifting Annie into his arms, and carrying her over the threshold, after fiddling with the door for a few seconds.

"Giles," Annie giggled. "You don't have to carry me."

"I want to carry you, Antoinette," Giles answered, kicking the door closed with his foot. "You are my bride."

Giles's lips never left hers the entire time he carried her up the stairs, and Annie eagerly tangled her fingers in his curls, pulling him closer, urging him to deepen the kiss. Giles finally allowed her feet to touch the ground when reached the bedroom they would share, setting her down on the rug in front of the huge wooden bed, and taking a step back so that he could look at her.

"You are the most beautiful woman in the world, Antoinette," he murmured, as he gazed upon her with a mixture of wonder and love. "And I cannot believe that you're mine."

"Oh, Giles," Annie sighed, as he placed his hands upon her shoulders and leaned in to trail tiny kisses down her neckline. Her pulse was racing and her breath was coming in rapid puffs. She and Giles had never before allowed their kisses to reach this fevered pitch. Even though neither of them came to their marriage as virgins, they had agreed to wait until their wedding night, before engaging in the physical side of love. Annie had been glad about the agreement, not having been able to imagine such intimacies with any man other than Erik. But the way Giles was brushing his soft, warm lips down the length of her neck, and slowly, gently unfastening the row of tiny buttons on her back, Annie realized it was time. She truly desired this—she wanted to be with her husband.

"Antoinette," Giles groaned, flattening his hand against the small of her back—only her thin shift separating his skin from hers. "I hope you know that Moncharmin is a fool."

"Why on earth," Annie asked, as she pushed Giles's tailcoat off his back and tentatively began to unbutton his shirt, "would you bring that man up at a time like this?"

"Because," Giles said, temporarily pausing in his ministrations to look deeply into her eyes, "I want you to know that there has never been a woman who has ever made me feel the way you do." Taking her hand in his and lifting it to his lips, he said, "I have never even come close to making such a commitment with another woman." He touched the band of gold that circled around her fourth finger. "I had never imagined taking a wife, Antoinette, until I fell in love with you. It's only you, Antoinette," he sighed, lowering his head as he cupped her chin in his hands, to steal another kiss. "It's only ever been you."

Annie whimpered as Giles's tongue gently separated her lips, seeking to taste the sweet wine of her mouth. Finally she managed to unfasten the last of his buttons, and with a gentle rustle, his shirt fell to the floor.

Pulling back so she could survey her prize, Annie was startled for a moment by what she saw. Giles's chest was lean, but sculpted with firmly toned muscles and dusted all over with a downy layer of golden curls. It was not pale, but ruddy and healthy—the absolute image of masculine strength. There was not a scar in sight—no marks of cruelty or anger to mar his beautiful flesh—only a heated flush creeping up to color his warm, warm skin as their passions mounted. He was truly magnificent.

Trembling, Annie closed her eyes and leaned forward to press her lips against the firm, heated flesh. Suddenly a tapestry of angry red scars flashed in her mind, and she was kissing away the pain, replacing it with sweetness, and kindness, and pure, untainted love. When she heard Giles suck in a sharp breath at the pleasure of her touch, she tried to push the image from her mind, but even when she forced her eyelids open, the vision of Erik's old wounds remained.

"Are you alright, Antoinette?" Giles asked, as she abruptly flinched away.

Taking in a deep breath to calm her nerves, she did not look at him as she said, "Of course, Giles…it's just …I…I became a bit…overwhelmed."

"I understand, my darling," Giles said, wrapping his arms around her and placing a tender kiss against her temple. "We can go slowly, if you like."

Still feeling a bit uneasy, Annie nodded, wishing the sickly feeling in her stomach would subside. Giles was her husband and all he wanted was to make love to her. It was a perfectly natural desire—one that she had shared until only a few moments previous. Why did she suddenly feel as if she were committing a sin?

With great reverence, Giles's fingers sought her hair. Gingerly, he began to pull out the dainty hairpins, one by one, loosing her ebony tresses to fall in tousled waves about her shoulders. His breath growing more and more ragged, Giles peeled her open bodice from her torso. When it was hanging limply at her waist, he used the tips of his finger to trace up and down the lengths of her arms, causing Annie to shiver and forget for a moment what had been the cause of her nervousness.

Encouraged by Annie's reaction, Giles placed his hands at her waist, gently nudging her skirts over her hips, causing them to pool on the floor. When she stood before him in only her shift, Giles had to catch his breath. Giving her a pleading look, he asked her huskily, "Antoinette, may I touch you?"

 _Let me touch you_ , Annie heard the words echo in her mind, as she practically felt herself being lain down on the furs, a beloved body stretching out next to her. Shaking her head, to try to push the memories away, she murmured, "Y…y…yes."

"Antoinette, are you sure?" Giles asked, a bit concerned, since he had seen the grimace wash briefly over her face.

"Giles," Annie said more forcefully than she meant to. " _Touch me_."

Swallowing hard, Giles raised a shaking hand to one of her tantalizing mounds, squeezing his fingers around it gently, marveling at its soft weight. "Oh Antoinette," he breathed raggedly, allowing his second hand to join the first. "You are exquisite."

Forcing herself to focus on the feeling of his hand upon her breasts, Annie's head fell back as she felt his fingertips circle her pebbling nipple. Reflexively, her pelvis jutted forward, and she was met with the evidence of his arousal, as it strained against his trousers.

"Antoinette," Giles hissed through clenched teeth. "Do you see what you do to me?"

Snaking an arm around his neck, Annie brought his mouth to hers for a kiss that was at once tender and passionate. When they were both breathless, and heaving for air, Giles gasped, "Are you ready for me, my wife?"

"Yes, my dear husband," Annie nodded, allowing herself to get lost in the sensations for a moment. "I am ready." And nudging the straps off of her shoulders, she allowed her shift to fall to the floor.

Giles picked her up again in his arms, kissing her lips deeply as he laid her down on their bed. Pausing only to rid himself of his own trousers, he climbed between her legs, and positioned himself at her entrance, holding his weight off of her with his outstretched arms. Gazing directly into her eyes, he whispered, "I love you, Antoinette," as he slowly pushed himself inside of her for the first time.

Annie watched as Giles closed his eyes and his teeth began to clench in pleasure. "Oh God, Antoinette," he groaned. "Oh my God."

The sensations that were building in Annie's body as Giles moved above her were not unpleasant at all, but as she instinctively wrapped her arms around his back, she was pulled once again to the past. Beneath her fingers was smooth, creamy skin, entirely devoid of the raised welts and protruding bones that told a sad, heart-wrenching story written by years of abuse and neglect.

She tried to stay in the moment and remind herself that she was with her husband. She tried not to let herself get lost in the ghosts that echoed from the past. But when Giles lowered his arms and rested his full weight upon her, moaning, "I want you closer, Antoinette. I only want you closer," Annie was lost. She closed her eyes, and suddenly it was Erik above her—touching her, moving with her, loving her. And when she felt the sweetness building inside her, it was Erik's eyes she saw in her mind when she called out Giles's name.

Giles found his release soon afterward and rested his head gently against hers, breathing heavily as he came down from his high. After a few moments, he lifted his head, and brushed the tangled, sweat moistened hair away from her face. "I love you, Antoinette," he whispered, as he leaned down and placed sweet, tender kisses on her lips.

Annie made certain to kiss him back, despite the numbness that was spreading inside her.

After a few quiet moments, Giles rolled to the side and immediately scooped Annie into his arms, resting his head on her breasts as he would a pillow. "Goodnight, my dear, sweet wife," he whispered sleepily, allowing his eyes to flutter closed as he drifted off to slumber.

Annie lay there for a long while holding him, inwardly begging for sleep, but not really surprised when it didn't come. When Giles finally shifted in his sleep, moving his head from her bosom to the pillow beside them, Annie took it as an opportunity to get out of bed.

Pulling on a dressing gown that Giles had thoughtfully laid out on her side of the room, Annie silently padded down the stairs to the parlor, and knelt on the carpet in front of the hearth. Just after Erik's death, many a day had drifted away, with her spending the time just sitting here and staring sightlessly at the flames. Many a night had come and gone in the exact same way. Tonight there was no fire—the stone was empty and cold—but she knew it didn't matter. There could not be a fire hot enough to melt away the ice that was coursing through her veins.

"I'm sorry, Erik," she wept, hunching over as she wrapped her arms tightly around her chest. "I'm so sorry, my love." And as she huddled there, sobbing her heart out, she never realized her husband watched her from the top of the stairs.

 **AN: Poor Annie! But I feel even worse for poor Giles. Ugh what a mess Annie has made! But she did drop the mic with Babette! Teehee... _that_ was fun!**


	61. Chapter 61

**AN: So I'm on spring break this week, BUT I'm also helping s relative move... so I figure I'll post as much as I can now, while I still have internet, but then I might have to go off the grid for a few days, while internet is set up at the new house. Enjoy! This next chapter focuses on Annie and Giles, but I hope you all you Erik lovers find it fun. (Of course, I am a MAJOR Erik lover myself, but Giles definitely grew on me...)**

CH 61:

Married life brought with it many joys. Giles Giry was a wonderfully attentive husband, who seemed to spend his days thinking up ways to make Annie smile. From stolen moments at the opera house, to long walks in the park after supper, Giles never failed to shower his wife with affection, taking every opportunity he could to show her how much she was loved. He talked with her; he laughed with her; some nights, he danced with her, which usually caused even more hilarity to ensue. They had put an end to his cooking for her, though, when he'd become so distracted one evening by something she was saying that he'd set a small kitchen fire. After they'd extinguished the flame, Annie had gathered a shaken Giles into her arms, sitting with him on the settee in the parlor. Resting his head on her bosom, as she stroked his blonde curls, he'd insisted, "Antoinette, you must never allow me to do that again!"—to which she'd just chuckled, kissed the top of his head, and promised she wouldn't. So now, she prepared the meals, when the cook had the night off, and he helped by washing and drying the dishes, never forgetting to heap mounds and mounds of praises upon her culinary skills. Life was good.

But it wasn't perfect.

For all its joys, married life also brought its share of sorrows—most of them arising in the bedroom. Like any new husband who was madly in love with his wife, Giles possessed an ardent appetite for his bride, and desired to spend as much time as possible with her in a biblical sense. Annie never refused him, since she too desired to share the joys of marital love. But when Giles and Annie were alone together, they never were truly…alone.

Annie could not push thoughts of Erik from her mind. Whenever Giles's warm hands would touch her, she would feel Erik's cool fingertips. Whenever Giles would kiss her, it was Erik's lips that met her own. Giles's sighs and moans of ecstasy were drowned out by Erik's harsh growls and lusty shouts of passion. And the sweetness she felt when her husband moved within her could never compare to the wildly pulsating waves of pleasure that had coursed through her body when she had been with Erik.

And then there was the guilt.

With every one of Giles's touches, or kisses—every time he even saw her unclothed—she felt the weight of shame. She knew he was her husband and that there was nothing inherently wrong with any of these things. Truth be told, there were moments when she craved his touch and yearned for his kisses. But regardless of the propriety of the situation, or of her desire for it, any intimacy she shared with her husband felt like a betrayal of her love—her first love…her _lost_ love. And though she always accepted Giles's romantic advances, she wondered if perhaps he could detect that her emotions were at war.

When the strain got to be too much, she would slip out of rehearsals early, arrive at lunch late, or in some other manner find time out of her day to steal away to the lair and visit with Erik.

Falling to her knees, she would call out over the lake, "I am sorry, my angel but he is my husband. It is his _right_." And in a quieter voice, as she looked down at her hands, twisting in her skirts, she'd add, "And Erik, I _want_ to be happy. I want to be loved." But she knew that the next time she came together with Giles, Erik would still be there, saturating her emotions, possessing her soul. "Will you _never_ let me go, Erik?" she'd ask him in a small voice, already knowing the answer. Her situation was hopeless. She would forever be haunted by the ghost.

* * *

Giles packed the last of the supplies into the bag and clasped the fastener shut. Everything was ready for their afternoon getaway, so slinging the satchel over his shoulder, he set about finding his bride.

The weekend away from the opera house was going to be a surprise for Antoinette. They'd married at the height of the opera season, and thus had not had the time to take a honeymoon. It had now been about three months since their wedding, and still they'd not been away on holiday. It was time for a short break, Giles had decided, so after arranging things with Madame Delacroix, an understudy was scheduled to dance Antoinette's part on the stage for the next three nights. It had come at a steep price—new ballet shoes for the entire company—but Giles believed the cost would be worth it. He was hoping it would alleviate some of the stress Antoinette had been under, juggling her dual roles of prima ballerina and new wife. And perhaps it would also help ease the distractions that seemed to plague her during their time together.

 _Don't be foolish, Giles,_ he admonished himself. _It will take more to free her from that distraction than a weekend in the country._

Giles knew well the nature of the preoccupation that was tormenting his wife. He would never forget the sting of watching her sob by the fireplace just hours after consummating their marriage—begging forgiveness of her _love_ for the sin of being intimate with her husband. Anger had seized his mind—just as pain had pierced his heart. He'd wondered, for a moment, if he should seek an immediate annulment of his marriage, on the grounds that they had wed under false pretense.

But looking at her again, he had seen— _really_ _seen_ —the agony in which she was suffering. Giles had never loved another woman. There had been dalliances—to be sure—and a few, brief, fleeting affairs. He had sought to treat his previous romantic partners with respect and kindness. But he had never loved. And he had never lost.

From all she had shared with him, Antoinette had loved Erik with every fiber of her being. She had been planning on spending her life with him before the cruel hands of fate had stripped him away from her. Her world had fallen to pieces. For a while, she had too.

But Antoinette was not a quitter. Little by little she picked herself up and put herself back together. She was trying to move on—to build a new world. Giles knew that was why she had finally allowed herself to love him, and had agreed to become his bride. But building worlds took time and help. And perhaps he had not given her enough of either.

He had tried to be patient—and he vowed he would be patient still. This weekend, however, he hoped to give her a little help in taking a step toward the new life that was waiting for her. For even though she was still struggling to say goodbye to her old life, she already meant the world to him.

He found his wife in the rehearsal room, finishing off her morning exercises and making ready to break for lunch with the other ballerinas.

"Madame Giry," he called to her, as he was wont to do when they were at the opera house.

Antoinette looked up from her routine to find her husband standing in the doorway. A few of the other girls giggled and whispered among themselves as she got up and walked over to the door, greeting him with a quick peck on the lips. "Giles," she said smiling. "What a pleasant surprise! But I thought I would be meeting you for lunch in the garden as always."

"We've had a change of plans, dear wife," he informed her with a smile on his face. "I came to tell you to gather your things. We are leaving."

"Leaving?" Annie asked, her eyes wide in surprise. "Is there some sort of emergency?"

"No, my darling," Giles said, hoping to ease her mind. "We are simply taking the afternoon—and the weekend—off."

Antoinette's eyes narrowed. "Giles Giry, Madame Delacroix would never agree to _that_!"

"There will be new pointe shoes for every ballerina in a week's time," he stated by way of explanation. "But really, Antoinette, it is time to go. Viggó doesn't like to be kept waiting." Putting an arm around her shoulder, he ushered her out of the rehearsal room, much to the other girls' delight.

"Giles," she protested. "My things!"

"Will still be here when you return," he answered matter of factly.

"Who is Viggó?" she asked, trying to change the topic.

"You'll see," Giles answered, as he continued to whisk her away, a chorus of excited chatter echoing behind them.

Viggó, Annie soon discovered, was the magnificent white stallion that was waiting with the opera stable hand just outside the staff entrance.

"My God, Giles," Annie said in awe, walking around the gorgeous animal and surveying him from all sides. "He is amazing."

"His name means lightning," Giles informed her, petting the horse's nose, and earning himself a gentle snuffle. "I think you will find that it's fitting to both his color _and_ his gait."

"His _gait_ ," Annie asked, looking at her husband, her head cocked to the side. "What do you mean, Giles? How would I be able to judge his _gait_?"

"Well, you're going to ride him," he told her, with a twinkle in his eye.

"What?" Annie asked, her eyes widening in horror. "No! I don't know how to ride a horse!"

"Don't worry," he said, effortlessly hefting himself up into the saddle from the horse's left side. With a smile, he leaned down and extended his hand. "I'll be with you, Antoinette."

Annie looked from her husband's hand back to the imposing creature before her. "Giles," she said, shaking her head. "I truly just don't know…"

"Trust me, Antoinette," he beseeched with pleading eyes. "Let me show you how…"

And looking into her husband's crystal blue eyes, she knew there was no way she could refuse him. Swallowing hard against the lump in her throat, she reached for his hand and allowed him to lift her up into the saddle—setting her down in front of him and wrapping his arm firmly around her waist. "I promise you, Antoinette," he leaned in to murmur in her ear, pulling her even more snugly against his chest. "No harm will come to you. I am with you, my darling. Just relax, and I will keep you safe."

Annie felt a tingle run down her spine at his soothing words, and a thrill of excitement ran through her at the press of his strong chest against her back. But she had no time to dwell on the sensation, because Giles made a soft snickering sound, giving a quick kick with his heels, and they were off—riding _lightning_ as he carried them off on their weekend adventure.

* * *

"He's a pure white Arabian Stallion, Antoinette," Giles told her of Viggó as they walked hand in hand along the sylvan trail at his family's country estate. The stallion in question had been groomed and watered after carrying them the entire distance from Paris, and was currently resting in the stables, enjoying the bucket of oats he had earned for his troubles. "This is where he is usually boarded. My sister and her family come out here often enough and the children love to ride him and the other horses."

"I see," Annie said, leaning her head against Giles's shoulder. She was already enjoying this relaxing time with him—away from the opera house—away from…everything. "Will your sister's family be joining us this weekend?" she wondered. As much as she had liked meeting Charlotte and her family at the wedding, she sincerely hoped Giles's answer was no. She wanted some more time with just her husband.

"Oh no, Antoinette," Giles assured her, stopping in their path and turning to face her. "This weekend is for us," he told her, placing a lingering kiss on her lips. "No family. No guests. I even sent the grounds keepers away," he added. "We are totally and utterly alone."

Annie could not suppress a little shiver when she felt his lips slide fluidly against hers once more. His mouth was velvet and Annie could feel herself beginning to drift away on the ripples of desire that his kiss was churning up inside her. Before things went too far, however, Annie felt Giles pull away, and once again leading her by the hand, continued their walk. "So, my darling, we will have to fend for ourselves the entire weekend!"

With a little chuckle, Annie squeezed Giles's hand and asked, "How will we ever survive?"

"Well," he told her, "before they left, I instructed the cook to stock the pantry. She assured me we were more than well prepared for a weekend on our own."

"That's a relief," Annie smiled, snuggling her head against her husband's shoulder once more as they continued on the winding path around the hillside.

"And here," he said, as they turned a final corner, "is the proof!"

The trail opened to a small clearing—a grassy meadow dusted all around with wild daisies and buttercups. In the center of the glade lay a square blanket, a picnic basket sitting on one corner.

"Giles!" Annie exclaimed in surprise, letting go of his hand and excitedly moving toward the blanket. "This is beautiful!"

"I had hoped you'd like it," he said following her into the clearing with a shy smile.

"I really do, Giles," Annie said, taking in a deep breath to drink in the floral aroma in the air. "It's lovely!"

"I think so too," he smiled at her, overjoyed that she too could see the beauty in this special place. Then, gesturing toward the picnic basket, he asked her, "Are you hungry?"

"Of course I am," Annie joked, sitting down on the edge of the blanket. "A dashing gentleman stole me away from the opera house without even the benefit of lunch!"

When Antoinette patted the space next to her on the blanket, and smiled at him with her eyebrow raised, Giles knew he could never refuse her.

"Good heavens!" he said, taking his place on the blanket. "He doesn't sound very dashing—or very gentlemanly—to me. You are lucky that I rescued you from such a cad— _and_ that I had the forethought to have the cook prepare us a mid afternoon snack."

"How _ever_ can I thank you?" Annie asked with a smirk. Giles was on the verge of suggesting a rather unladylike way of showing her gratitude, when she turned and began to rummage through the contents of the basket.

Giles watched as Annie unpacked bread, grapes, and some hard cheese. Deciding to help, Giles reached into the basket and retrieved an unopened bottle of Chardonnay. As Annie tore the bread and sliced off a few pieces of the cheese, Giles removed the cork from the wine and poured two glasses of the sweet liquid.

"To us," Giles said, lifting his glass.

"To us," Annie echoed as she clinked her glass with his before taking a sip.

Giles sipped a bit more of his wine as he watched Annie place a slice of cheese onto a piece of bread and take a bite. "Mmmmmm," she said, closing her eyes, her mouth still half full of her snack. "This is delicious, Giles. Have some."

And reaching for a bit of the crusty baguette, Giles was only too happy to oblige.

After Annie and Giles had finished their snack, Annie leaned her back against her husband's chest, and reclined against him, kicking off her shoes and burying her toes in the cushion of the soft grass peeking out beneath their blanket.

"Has your family always owned this property, Giles?" she asked him lazily.

"As long as I can remember," was his answer. "We used to come out here on holiday when I was a child. I spent many long hours reading here in this very meadow, in fact."

"All by yourself?" Annie asked, feeling suddenly sad at the thought of Giles being lonely as a child.

"Well, yes," he nodded. "Charlotte did not always relish entertaining her younger brother. She quickly grew tired of games of hide and seek."

"Well that's a pity," Annie said, looking around. "It seems like these woods would be the perfect place for a game of hide and seek. So many wonderful spots for hiding!"

"That's what I used to say," Giles nodded in excitement. "But she always tired of the game long before me, and would run off and do something girly with mother. So I was left alone to read."

"Hmph," Annie huffed, knowing it was silly to be miffed at her sister-in-law for something that happened well over a decade ago—something that didn't even seem to bother Giles—but still feeling that way none-the-less. Then, much to Giles's surprise, she jumped to her feet and reached a hand out to help her husband to his.

"Antoinette, what…" he asked, his eyes narrowed in confusion.

"Count to twenty, Giles!" Annie interjected, cutting him off. "And close your eyes."

"What?" he asked, cocking his head to the side.

"You're it, Giles!" Annie explained with a smile. "Close your eyes and count to twenty." Lifting her finger as a warning, she added, "And no peeking!"

Giles laughed when he finally caught on to her meaning, but he did close his eyes and begin to slowly count to twenty—only to speed up toward the end. "Ready or not, Antoinette, here I come!" he called out as he took to the trees to search for his bride.

Giles had not thought it would take him long to find Antoinette, expecting her to giggle and give her location away. But what Giles didn't know was that when he wasn't looking, Annie was stealthily slipping from one hiding place to another. She had developed a certain amount of furtiveness, possessing a dancer's natural grace and having lived all those years with Erik. Of course, she would never have been able to fool Erik with this. But Giles did not yet know all her secrets, so she would play the upper hand while she still had it.

"Madame Giry," Giles teased in a sing-song voice, as he searched behind trees and beneath bushes. "Come out, come out wherever you are…" But it was no use. Every now and then, Giles was sure he'd heard a rustle of leaves behind him but he would turn to find no one. "Antoinette," he called again, his voice beginning to sound a bit shaky. "Antoinette, where are you?"

Annie watched from behind a nearby bush as Giles's expression went from mischievous and fun to wild eyed and nervous. She could tell he was beginning to genuinely panic, so she decided to put an end to his worry. Creeping out to stand behind him, Annie purposely stepped on some twigs to make a loud snap. When Giles immediately whirled around to see Antoinette standing right behind him, his concern instantly turned to playfulness when he heard Annie say, "Boo!"

"Catch me if you can, Giles!" she called behind her, as she and took him by surprise and ran back to the clearing.

"Oh, I'll catch you, Antoinette!" Giles shouted, as he ran to chase after her.

Giles caught up quickly with his bride. "I told you I was going to catch you, Antoinette," he laughed, a little out of breath, throwing his arms around her to bring her to a stop.

"Now that you've got me," Annie asked, giggling, "What are you going to do with me?"

"This!" he exclaimed and began tickling her waist.

"Giles!" Annie shrieked, squirming wildly to get out of Giles's grasp, but no matter how she tried, she could not wriggle out of her husband's grasp. "Stop!"

"No, Antoinette!" Giles roared with laughter. "I caught you fair and square, and I'm never going to let you go!"

Laughing so hard she could barely catch her breath, she pleaded again, "Giles! Stop! I can't breathe!"

Just then they heard a loud clap of thunder and the sky opened up to pour fat, heavy raindrops down upon them. Instantly Giles pulled her back to the tall trees that lined the meadow, knowing that their lush canopy would provide a temporary shelter from the storm.

"Oh Giles," Annie exclaimed, still laughing, once they were safely beneath the dense green trees, "I'm all wet!" She shook excess water from her hands, and blew a straggly strand of hair away from her eyes.

With clenched jaw, Giles looked wolfishly at his wife who was, indeed, soaked through and through. Her sodden gown clung tightly to her curves, as if it had been painted on, and her mussed hair was just beginning to spill out of the chignon she had tied it into. With dewy raindrops glistening on her face, Giles thought she had never been more beautiful.

And he had never been hungrier.

 **AN: Well, Giles, I think there's plenty of baguette left in the basket... but that might not be what he's hungry for...**

 **Anyway, as you can see, Annie is trying, because she truly wants to be happy. But she can never stop thinking of Erik long enough to allow herself to be. But Giles is going to try as hard as he can to distract her. This is his way of fighting for her. Let's see if he wins...**


	62. Chapter 62

**AN: Well, the movers are here, so this will be my last chapter for a while. But it's a sweet one. At least for Annie and Giles...**

CH 62

Cupping her chin in his hands, Giles tilted her head upward and leaned into her and claiming her lips as his own. Ravenously, he kissed her, drinking her in with his tongue, nipping at her bottom lip with his teeth. It took a moment but soon, Annie wrapped her arms tightly around her husband's neck, quite surprised—but delighted—by his sudden passion. She kissed him back as voraciously as he kissed her, releasing a little whimper when he pressed more firmly against her and effectively pinned her against a nearby tree.

Giles continued his amorous assault of her mouth until her moans and whimpers of pleasure were enough to spur him on to further action. Deepening their kiss even more, he began to untie the laces that held her bodice together.

"Giles," she sighed breathlessly as she broke their kiss. "What are you doing?"

"I am undressing my wife," he groaned his answer, loathe to remove his lips from hers even long enough to form the words.

"Here?" Annie asked him, a bit startled by his suggestion. "Outside?"

"Why not?" he responded, never halting in his progress.

"Well…" Annie answered, still a bit uncertain, although her resolve was weakening with every kiss he placed on the column of her neck. "What if someone were to see?"

"As I told you earlier, my dear Antoinette," he reminded her, his hands opening her now loosed bodice, as he continued his trail of kisses along her collarbone, "there's no one else here. We are utterly, and completely alone, and I think it's high time, my darling," he sighed, as he began to push her dress over her shoulders, "that we get you out of these wet clothes."

"It's still raining, Giles," she sighed, though the fight was gone from her protest. "We'll only get wetter."

"Mmmmm, sounds wonderful," he rumbled in a voice dark with desire as he gave another tug at her bodice.

Annie could not help but moan when she felt his slippery fingers tracing against the bare skin of her arms as he continued to remove her dress. Closing her eyes, she let her head fall back languidly, reveling in the sensation of his lips on her skin, knowing that in her mind, it would soon be another pair of lips that was kissing her.

"No, Antoinette," she heard him speak her name sharply, as he lifted his mouth from her upper chest. "Open your eyes!"

When she quickly met his gaze, she saw a seductive smile spread over his face. "My clothes are soaked too, darling," he said, his eyes glistening with mischief. "Care to help?"

"I daresay, dear husband," she responded, her lips curling up at the corner of her mouth as she took a step back to admire the shirt that was plastered against his torso, and the sodden trousers that made his arousal plain to her. "Wet garments quite become you!"

"I promise, dear wife," he countered, lustily. "You will like them better discarded on the grass."

A little giggle escaped as Annie unbuttoned Giles's shirt and peeled it off of him so that it fell to the grass beneath their feet. "You are right," she said, running her fingernails over his slick chest, "they're much better on the ground."

When Annie began to unfasten his trousers, Giles gave a deep growl as he claimed her lips once again with his, pressing his bare chest tightly up against her breasts, which were covered only by her thin shift, made translucent by the water. When his hands crept up to pinch her tightening nipples, Antoinette moaned and squirmed against him.

"Do you like that, my love?" he asked, unable to keep his hips from thrusting forward to meet hers.

"Mmmmm," she moaned, at the feeling of his hot readiness pressing against her. "I like that even better," and once again, she closed her eyes.

"Antoinette," Giles spoke her name once again, alert and concerned, "Stay with me."

Annie once again lifted her eyelids to find his blue eyes wide and pleading. "I am right here, Giles," she told him, and she saw some of his worry disappear.

"Come, Antoinette," he said softly as he took her hand and pulled her down with him to the ground, laying her back against the grass.

The grass was wet, but so were they, and all thoughts of the soggy ground flew from Annie's mind as Giles laid his weight upon her her and began to bestow hot, searing kisses to the entire length of her body. He started with her breasts, sucking each taut, pebbled nipple into his mouth one at a time, circling them with his tongue, nipping at them through the flimsy fabric of her soaked through shift. When he felt her begin to arch against him, Giles gazed up at her and took one of her hands in his, entwining their fingers and squeezing gently. In a heated whisper, he repeated his words, "Stay with me, Antoinette," as he let his lips travel lower to kiss a trail to her abdomen.

Annie moaned loudly and writhed against him, as his tongue tickled her navel, swirling around inside and out.

"Oh Giles," she sighed, as her eyelids grew heavy once more.

"That's right, darling," he murmured, glancing up at her. "Say my name."

"Giles," Annie whispered again, her voice growing darker with need as her husband shifted his head to the right, and scraped his teeth gently across her hip.

Loving the sound of his name on her lips, Giles slid even lower down her delicious curves, releasing her hand so that he could use both of his to push her shift up and over her hips. "Lovely," he whispered, when she was bared to him, and dipped his head between her legs.

Antoinette's eyes, which had been threatening to close again, shot open as she released a loud gasp of surprise.

"Giles, what are you…? What…?" her voice trailed off as warmth began to fill her limbs, bringing a heated flush to her face. "Giles," she sighed a final time, letting her fingers rest in her husband's golden curls, as she felt herself begin to give in to the fever he was creating within her.

Giles swirled his tongue around the sensitive nub between her legs, her every sigh and moan absolute music to his ears. When he allowed himself to delve inside her hidden core, he felt her tighten around him, her hips bucking up reflexively, drawing him deeper into her center.

Giles rode out the waves of her climax, holding on to her thrashing hips as she convulsed above him, loving her every throe of passion. And as soon as he felt her begin to calm, he crawled up the length of her body, sliding himself inside her still quivering folds.

Annie threw her head back in ecstasy when she felt her husband within her. Immediately she felt Giles's hand cupping her cheek. "Antoinette," he implored her. "Antoinette, look at me."

When she opened her eyes, she saw her husband hovering above her, his beautiful, golden curls a stringy, unruly mess, his jaw clenched with passion. His blue eyes glowed as he hissed, "That's it, Antoinette. Look at me. See how much I want you—how much I need you." And then, something shifted in his gaze and a tender plea was evident as he moaned, "See how much I love you, Antoinette. See me."

Moved by the quiet desperation in his words, Annie reached up and lovingly stroked his cheek.

"Yes, my love," he begged, his voice a ragged whisper. "Touch me. Please touch me."

Annie wrapped her arms around him tightly as he steadily moved above her. Reaching to push his trousers lower on his legs, her hands grabbed onto his perfectly rounded buttocks and urged him deeper inside her.

"Yes, Antoinette," Giles whimpered at her gesture, running his hand down one of her legs and pulling it up to hook it around his waist. "Draw me closer, darling. Move with me. Love me."

Annie loudly moaned his name once again as she began to thrust her hips in perfect rhythm with her husband. It was not long before the pleasure built up again inside her and she was shattering against him held together only by his strong arms wrapped around her, his firm body pressing down upon her.

When Giles felt Antoinette's second orgasm explode around him he could hold himself back no longer. With a final thrust, he emptied himself inside her, calling her name as he squeezed her tightly against him.

Annie was lost in the absolute euphoria she felt as she drifted slowly down from her peak, her husband anchoring her, as he strove to calm his breathing. When he caught her gazing at him, he smiled down at her, and rolled gently to lie beside her.

"I love you, Antoinette," he murmured in her ear, placing feather soft kisses against her hairline. "I love you so much dear wife."

Annie felt content. She felt cherished. And most importantly, Annie felt connected to her husband—to Giles—with no one else to come between them. And closing her eyes, she snuggled in close to him, breathing in to drink in his scent.

Softly, she felt Giles's fingers on her face, tracing her lips, caressing her cheeks. "My beautiful, beautiful flower," she heard him whisper, as she felt his fingers trail to her hair. Opening her eyes, she saw him weaving into her dark tresses some of the small wild daisies and buttercups that were so prevalent in the meadow. At once she was reminded of the way Erik used to tuck roses behind her ear, taking great pains to expertly arrange her curls around them just so. For a moment she felt herself being drawn back into the past, feeling traces of guilt try to seep in at the edges of her contentment.

But then she looked up into Giles's eyes. She saw so much happiness there—and so much love. She would not allow herself to feel guilty about the joy they had just shared. She couldn't. Because while it wasn't the same as it had been with Erik, she did love her husband. And she was beginning to realize that it was all right.

"Giles," she murmured, tilting her head up for a quick kiss.

"Yes, my love?" he asked her, relishing the feeling of her lips against his.

"Take me back to the cabin," she demanded with a glint in her eyes.

"Are you starting to feel cold, my darling?" he asked, holding her even more tightly to try to stave off a chill.

"No, Giles it is not that," she assured him with a smile. "I just cannot wait to get into the dry bed—where I plan to spend the rest of the weekend," she paused to kiss him once again, "making love to my husband."

Smiling widely against her lips, Giles murmured, "What a fabulous idea!" And with a final kiss, Giles and Annie rose to their feet, replaced their clothing, and made their way back to the cabin—where they put Annie's plan into effect.

* * *

It was still raining later—much later—when Annie rolled off her husband and collapsed on the bed beside him, both of them breathing heavily, a burst of colors still swirling behind their eyes.

"My _God_ , Antoinette!" Giles gasped, staring up at the ceiling, too worn out to even turn onto his side. "After that, I honestly don't care if it ever stops raining."

Annie chuckled deep in her throat. "If it doesn't, Giles," she said jokingly, "we're going to float away!"

"As long as I'm floating with you," he said, still breathless, "I wouldn't care!"

Annie giggled, and snuggled up against his side, laying her head on his chest. With a contented sigh, she placed a sweet kiss over his heart.

"I love you, Antoinette," Giles said in return, wrapping an arm around his wife, and holding her close.

They were quiet for a few moments, Annie listening to Giles's heartbeat as his breathing slowly returned to normal, contemplating the miracle this man performed for her today. For the first time, Annie was able to be with Giles—to make love with him—without feeling as if it were wrong; without feeling guilty; without fantasizing about another man.

"I want to thank you, Giles," Annie whispered, before she realized the words were coming out of her mouth.

"For what, my darling?" he asked sleepily, as he struggled to open his eyes.

"For today," Annie told him plainly. "For this afternoon. I…" she swallowed hard knowing she had to speak what was on her mind, no matter how difficult it might be to admit what she'd been feeling. "…I truly needed this, Giles."

"Believe me, my darling," Giles said with a lazy smile spreading over his face. "It was my pleasure."

Annie chuckled softly, and, running her fingernails through the soft hairs on his chest, she said, "That's not what I mean, Giles."

"What _do_ you mean, my love?" he asked, finally fully awake, turning his head to look in her eyes.

"Giles," Annie began, nervous at what she was going to say, but feeling that she needed to say it—to be honest with this wonderful man lying beside her. "I am very sorry for what I'm about to say, and I beg you not to be angry or upset. But ever since we've been married, I've been feeling so guilty. About…" she swallowed hard again before forcing herself to say, "…about Erik."

"Antoinette, I know," Giles said, giving her shoulder a firm squeeze.

But, completely lost in her own thoughts, and not hearing him, Annie continued. "Giles, I just have not been able to shake the feeling that I was somehow betraying Erik by being with you."

"I know," Giles told her again, but once more his wife continued on.

"I've tried so hard, Giles, to not feel that way, but it's been eating at me, and…"

"Antionette," Giles interjected, finally breaking in to her lamentation, turning fully on his side, and cupping her cheek in his hand. "I _know_. I saw you…on our wedding night…crying."

Annie's eyes grew wide, and unshed tears gathered within them. "You saw me?" she asked in disbelief. "Oh Giles, I'm so sorry," she said, the tears spilling out onto her cheek. "I never wanted you to see that."

"Hush, Antoinette," Giles whispered, wiping a tear from her eyes, "It's alright, my love. I understand."

"How, Giles?" Annie asked miserably. "How is it that you can be understanding of _that_?"

"Antoinette," he told her seriously. "You _loved_ Erik. How could I _not_ understand? You do not do anything half way, my darling. It's one of the many things I treasure about you. It would not be you to just stop loving someone you for whom you cared so much. I think I would be more worried if you did. It would indicate a shallowness of emotions that I _know_ you do not possess.

"But, Antoinette," he continued, his eyes growing serious. "I think the guilt you felt made it difficult for us to truly connect before today. And that is the most important thing in the world to me. I know you loved Erik, and I can accept that. You don't have to keep your feelings for him a secret from me. You can talk to me about him, Antoinette. You can tell me if you're feeling sad or missing him. I was with you that day, remember Antoinette? I _know_ what his death did to you. Don't be afraid to let me in. I promise, I won't turn you away."

"Giles…" Antoinette said with wonder in her eyes, "I just…" she struggled with words to express the depths of emotions she was feeling for her husband right now—this man who seemed more of an angel to her the more she learned about his selfless goodness. "I don't know what to say."

"Just say you'll always be honest with me, Antoinette," he beseeched her. "Promise me that you won't shut me out."

"I will always be honest, Giles," she solemnly swore. "And it may not always be easy to talk about my feelings about Erik with you—but I will try."

"That's all I ask, my darling," he smiled, stroking her cheek. "And I promise to always be honest as well."

"I know you always are, dear husband," Annie insisted, nodding, "and you always have been."

"Well, in the spirit of always being honest," Giles said, a shy look coming over his face, "there is one more thing you can say."

"What is it, Giles?" Annie asked, willing to do just about anything to please her husband at that point.

Looking into his wife's eyes, his blue eyes pleading, but guarded, as if he didn't expect to be granted what he asked, Giles said softly, "You can tell me you love me."

Annie stared at her husband, rendered speechless by what he asked. _Those words shall never cross my lips for another, Erik_ , she could hear herself promising in her mind. The assertion pounded in her ears—clutched at her heart. No, she couldn't say _that_ to Giles. She could never say that to anyone ever again. Erik was gone. Erik was dead. Those words were for him and him alone.

But Giles's eyes were hopeful, and yet bracing themselves for her refusal. And after the love he had shown her today, how could she refuse him? _Maybe Erik doesn't have to let you go_ , _Annie_ , a voice whispered in her mind. _Maybe it's you that has to let go in order to be happy._

Just as Giles was about to look away, Annie whispered, "I do, Giles."

Giles's face lit up when he heard her, and sucking in a sharp breath, tears glistened in his eyes.

And as tears filled her eyes as well, Annie whispered again, "I do…I do…I do…." Cradling his face in her hands, she drew him in for a kiss. And as they once again began to make love, softly and tenderly, and with great emotion, the rain outside their window continued to fall.

 **AN: Well, she KINDA told Giles she loved him, but she never said the words... Did she find a loophole that allows her to keep her promise?**


	63. Chapter 63

CH 63

As Yasmin's feet carried her quickly through the main cellblock, she was for once grateful for the veil she had to wear whenever she stepped out of the slave quarters. She had truly detested the hot and itchy garment these last few months. Every time she wore it, she could not help but think of the reason why it was needed—that the shah had not given up his disgusting obsession of having her as one of his harem girls.

"He does not even know my name!" Yasmin had exclaimed one night when whining about how ridiculous she thought the entire situation was.

"He doesn't need to know your name, Yasmin," Erik had told her plainly. "He doesn't think of you as a person, but as a thing—an object he wishes to possess."

"Ugh!" she groaned, flouncing herself down on the floor outside his cell. "It's not fair!"

"It doesn't have to be fair, Yasmin," Erik reminded her, instinctively touching a finger to his own masked cheek. "Life isn't fair. Wear the veil!"

And, grudgingly, she always did. But this week, a volatile illness had taken hold in the cellblock—leaving men heaving and retching up the contents of their stomachs. The veil served as protection against the worst of the sights and smells, as well as a safeguard against the horrific ailment. Still, the first thing she was going to do when she got to Erik's cell was unwind the stifling, uncomfortable fabric from her head and relish the moments of freedom her visits with him afforded her.

"Erik?" Yasmin called cheerily as she pushed open the dungeon door. "Erik, good morning!"

The only reply Yasmin heard was a horrible coughing coming from the dark back corner of the cell, followed by what sounded like vomiting. Oh no, Yasmin thought. It has hit him too.

All thoughts of the vile and disgusting nature of the illness left Yasmin's mind as she set down her tray and hurried over as close as she could get to the source of the sounds and shone her light inside. Erik was, indeed, on all fours, evacuating his stomach contents, and from the looks of the mess on his ground, he had been for most of the night.

"Erik," Yasmin called, her voice thick with concern. "Erik, are you all right?" Yasmin immediately chided herself for asking the question, because it was obvious that he wasn't all right, but she had to say something. "Erik!" she cried again, a little louder this time, when he didn't answer her. "Erik, please look at me."

With a pitiable groan, Erik strained to pull himself to into a siting position and leaned his head back against the stone wall, panting harshly to regain the breath the simple motion had stolen from him. Yasmin's stomach sank. He was not wearing the mask she had given him, and the deformity that plagued his visage was exposed for her to see, but the untouched side of his face was even more alarming. Covered in sweat, Erik was pale as a ghost—with dark circles under puffy eyes. He was not vomiting for the time being, but he looked so weak, so frail. And the way he trembled told her that he was plagued with fever.

Yasmin herself felt slightly ill at seeing him in this state. Over the time she had been tending to him, Erik had become more than a prisoner to her—he had become her friend. And while it had not troubled her to see the men upstairs suffering similarly, now that it was Erik, she knew she had to do something.

"Erik, I will be back," Yasmin informed him, her voice resolute. "I am going to help you." And taking one last look at him, not even knowing if he had heard her, Yasmin hastened out the door.

Running up the stairs as fast as she could, she dashed through the cellblock, full of men who were in the same agony as Erik. She knew her heart should be moved to pity for them as well, but right now, her own charge was her main concern. She ran to the supply room where she filled a large bucket with water and snatched several rags from one of the shelves. Then, moving as fast as the full bucket would allow her, she stormed to the guard office.

Shoving the door open without so much as a knock, she stood there, in front of two startled guards, and made her demand.

"I need the key to the dungeon!" she declared, heaving for air as her frantic exertions had left her out of breath.

The guards looked at her as if she had grown two heads.

"What?" asked the one sitting on the right, arranging playing cards into piles on his desk. "No."

"You do not have authority to have the key," said his partner, who was finishing his morning meal. "Just hand the prisoner his supplies through the bars."

"You don't understand," Yasmin objected. "He is ill."

"They all are," said the first guard, rolling his eyes.

"He needs _help!_ " she begged, growing frantic. "He is so weak, I fear he may die."

"That was the shah's plan all along," the second guard snickered, looking down at his plate. " _Let him rot_ , he said."

Bringing her fist down hard on the table in front of the man, she snarled, "I _cannot_ let him rot! He is my charge and I intend to help him!"

Both of the guards looked up at her impassioned declaration. "You are risking your life if you go in there," the one with the cards said. "He is dangerous."

"Not to mention ill…" said his partner.

"What do you care," Yasmin asked bitterly, "for the life of a lowly _slave girl_? It is my own to risk. Just give me the key!" She demanded once again, holding her hand open in front of them.

Looking to his partner, the first guard grudgingly picked up his heavy key chain and thumbed through the keys until he found the one that unlocked the door to the dungeon. "Here," he said, tossing it at her so that it landed on the ground in front of her feet. "But enter at your own risk, _slave girl._ If anything happens to you, we won't save you. And if this is some kind of ruse, to let the prisoner go free, _you_ will be the one rotting down there."

As Yasmin dropped to the floor to pick up the fallen key, the two guards erupted in harsh laughter. Paying them no mind, she tucked the key into her pocket, lifted up her bucket and rags, and scurried back to Erik without another word.

She found him as she'd left him, slumped against the hard wall in his cell, his face looking pale and drawn, his eyes closed. She wasted no time fitting the key in the lock and turning it to open the bars that had heretofore stood between them. Rushing to him, she set the bucket and the rags on the ground as she knelt by his side.

"Erik," she said, patting the smooth side of his face to try to get his attention. His skin was hot and clammy under her hand—his fever was high.

Dipping one of the rags into the water, she brought it to his face, wiping the sweat off his brow, and pressing the cooling liquid against his cheeks. "Erik," she said again, desperately trying to keep the alarm out of her voice, thought her fears grew every second. "Come on, Erik, wake up. I'm here to help you—like I promised. Are you going to ignore me now?"

Just as her worry was starting to reach a fever pitch, she saw his eyelids flutter open. With great effort, Erik eventually focused on her face, a spark of recognition registering in his glassy eyes.

"Annie, is that you?" he asked weakly, his voice scratchy and dry.

Knowing that her friend was delirious because of the fever, Yasmin corrected him,

"No, Erik, it's Yasmin."

"Annie," he rasped again, his parched lips curling into a smile as he persisted in his delusion. "I knew you'd come for me, my angel—my love."

Yasmin's heart ached with pity for her friend, who was so beleaguered by fever. She had tears in her eyes as she shook her head and whispered, "Erik…"

"Will you hold me like you used to, Annie?" he pleaded, looking at her with heavy lidded eyes. "At least until I fall asleep? I've waited so long for you to hold me. I f…f…feel," his teeth began to chatter as his body shook violently with fever, "s…s…so c…c…cold."

When Yasmin saw Erik trembling, she realized there was no point in fighting his delirium. The only thing that would help it was for the fever to come down. Words and reason were not going to make that happen.

Gathering him into her arms, Yasmin held her friend close, trying to warm him from the chills that had taken over his body. "Shh…Erik," she whispered, while continuing to press the cloth against his cheek. "I'm here…I'm here."

"A…a…annie?" he called, his voice a hoarse moan.

"Erik," Yasmin said again, not claiming that she was Annie, but not denying it either, "I am here."

Reaching his fingers up to lightly touch her veiled cheek, Erik whispered, "I love you…" His voice trailed off as his eyes closed again, his hand falling limply to his side.

Sniffling, Yasmin assured him softly, "Annie loves you too." And brushing a few stray locks away from his forehead, Yasmin muttered to herself, "She simply _must_."

Yasmin held Erik close until his shaking subsided and she felt him drift into a calm sleep. When she was fairly certain he would not awaken, she laid him down as gently as she could on the dirt floor, ashamed that she had not smuggled in a pillow, and determined to remedy that oversight at her first opportunity.

With Erik resting peacefully, Yasmin pulled herself to her feet and went about the task of cleaning his cell. He had been ill all over the floor, and she knew that there was no way he would recover if the mess stayed there. Keeping her friend's welfare at the forefront of her mind, Yasmin used the extra rags and the rest of the water to wipe up the leavings of Erik's sickness, not wishing for any remnants to be left behind. She kept the veil wrapped around her mouth and nose for added protection against this horrific ailment.

When she had finished scrubbing the ground, she stood and looked around the cell to see if there was anything she had missed. That was when she noticed Erik's sketchbook laying open on the far side of the cell. Walking slowly over to it, she knelt down and looked at the picture on the page. It was a close up of Erik's Annie—the raven hared beauty who owned his heart. She was drawn from her shoulders up, her almond shaped dark eyes looking coyly out from lowered lashes. The pencil marks on her forehead were smudged a bit, and tears once again gathered in Yasmin's eyes as she imagined Erik leaning his forehead against the portrait's, trying to glean comfort from a replica on a cold page.

"Oh, Erik…" Yasmin sighed, moved to sorrow for his fate.

Turning the page, however, Yasmin saw something of a different nature.

 _My Dearest Annie…_

It was a letter! Erik had taken her advice and written his love a letter. Reading it through, Yasmin was left breathless by its eloquence and sadness. Poor Erik was so in love with this Annie, but he had lost all hope of ever seeing her again. She did not know exactly what difference it would make, but she knew that Annie _had_ to read this letter. She had to know exactly how much Erik loved her and pined for her still. Perhaps she would write him back, assuring him of her continued devotion. Perhaps she would come for him…

Giving Erik another glance, pleased that he was still resting, Yasmin quietly tore the page with the letter out of his book. Folding it neatly, and tucking it into her skirt, she determined that this letter was going to be sent to the Palais Garnier. "She has to know, Erik," Yasmin whispered, as she checked on him one last time before taking her leave. "She must know what has become of her love."

* * *

The past two months had been bliss. Since their afternoon in the daisies, as they referred to it, Giles and Antoinette's affection for one another had only grown. They often recalled their weekend away, when they had seldom ventured out of bed, even after the sun had returned and painted the sky with a beautiful rainbow-so great had been their hunger for one another. Both marked that time as the true start of their marriage-that moment when hearts were laid bare, secrets were revealed, and a newer, stronger bond was formed.

This was not to say that Annie was not still given to moments of melancholy. Thoughts of Erik still crossed her mind every day. But trying to remain true to the vow she had made to her husband when he begged her not to push him away, Annie shared with him, and let him comfort her in her continued grief.

"I just wish that I had been with him, Giles," she told him quietly one night, as they watched the fire from the settee. "He shouldn't have had to die alone."

"He wouldn't have wanted you there, Antoinette," Giles insisted, squeezing her shoulder tightly. "No man who loves a woman would want her anywhere near Mazanderan."

"I should not have let him go," she lamented, watching the flames spit and crackle, and thinking of how their reflection would glow in Erik's golden eyes. "I should have kicked and screamed and insisted that he stay here. I should have done whatever it took to prove to him that he was already enough-he was already everything to me."

Though Giles had begged her to reveal to him her inmost feelings, and had given her permission to share her grief over Erik, it _did_ smart a bit for him to see that hollow, grief stricken look still in her eyes. But preferring to stay connected to her, rather than having her withdraw into her shell again, he didn't complain. Lovingly stroking her cheek, and turning her face toward his, he'd simply whisper, "Antoinette, _you_ are everything to _me_."

His tender words were usually all she needed to pull her out of her contemplative moods.

"Thank you, Giles," she'd mutter, smiling at him sweetly, "for being patient with me."

"Always, my beautiful fleur de lune," he promised, his blue eyes dark with emotion. "Thank you for letting me in."

Annie sighed, using her fingers to bring his head closer to hers.

"I love you, Antoinette," Giles murmured just before giving in to her kiss.

It was these same words, "I love you, Antoinette," that Giles whispered one morning as he held his wife's hair away from her face while she vomited into the commode. She had been sick like this the previous two mornings as well, and though the nausea always seemed to pass as the day drew on, Giles felt panic growing within him. This was the first time Antoinette had been ill since they had married, and Giles did not know what to do with the sense of helplessness he felt as he watched her struggle. He wanted to take every ounce of discomfort away from her. Instead, he could only hold back her hair.

When Annie's stomach felt settled, Giles handed her a wet cloth to wipe her face. Then, gathering her into his arms, he held her close, rocking her gently back and forth.

"I'm sorry, Giles," Annie said, leaning her head on his chest. I don't know what came over me, but I feel much better now."

"That is the same thing you said yesterday, Antoinette," he reminded her, stroking her hair, and placing a gentle kiss on the top of her head.

"Yes, because it was true then too," she insisted, snuggling closer into him, loving how warm and comforting he felt. "It is a strange ailment, but I'm certain it will pass."

"How can you be sure, Antoinette?" Giles asked her in all seriousness, a bit of his true concern entering his voice.

Annie pulled slightly back and looked into her husband's eyes, startled by the anxiety she saw within them. "Giles?" she asked. "Are you alright?"

"I'm worried, Antoinette," he told her plainly, a bit of color entering his cheeks. "I would feel much better if you saw Doctor Janvier at the opera house today."

"If it means that much to you, Giles," she answered, certain that he was overreacting, "I will ask Madame Delacroix for leave to go see him as soon as we get in."

"You will?" He asked, surprised that she had given in so easily.

"Yes, Giles," she smiled, "If it will put your mind at ease."

"It would, my darling," he told her, already feeling relief from the nerves that had been building within him. "I'll come with you to see Madame and then we can go see Dr. Janvier"

"No, Giles," Annie insisted. "You don't have to come with me. You have work to do!"

"But Antoinette," he began to argue.

"I will come see you as soon as he is finished telling me I have a virus and nothing more," Annie interjected while raising a hand in the air to halt her husband's protests.

Giles rolled his eyes at his wife as she rose into a standing position. "You think I am being foolish, don't you?" He asked sheepishly, as he too stood to his full height.

"I think that if the tables were turned," she said, taking his hands in hers, "I would be feeling the same way. Because that's what husbands and wives do."

"Among other things," Giles answered, a wicked grin spreading over his face. Pulling her close, he murmured in her ear, "...And I truly _love_ the other things..."

Feeling a shiver run down her back, Annie giggled and slapped him lightheartedly on the arm. "Monsieur Giry, it is time I got ready for work."

"Yes, Madame," he answered, dutifully releasing her so that she could begin to dress.

So it was that Giles arrived at his office a bit distracted by what the doctor would find when he examined Antoinette. Trying, to trust his wife's judgment and put his worries aside, however, he thumbed through the stack of mail that Monsieur Moncharmin must have left upon his desk. There were several bills, as well as a thank you card from one of the dignitaries the opera had hosted the previous month. Nothing out of the ordinary—until, that was, he came to the letter on the bottom of the stack.

 _Antoinette Laramie_ the name on the letter said. It had been months since anyone had used his wife's maiden name and the sight of it startled him a bit—he much preferred the look and sound of Antoinette Giry. The use of Antoinette's former name was not the only thing odd about the envelope, however. There was no street indication, with Opera Garnier, Paris France being the only directives provided for the postman to follow. The letter appeared to have been mailed over a month previous-the length of time it had taken to be delivered probably attributable to the incomplete address. Turning the envelope over in his hand, Giles sucked in a breath when he saw that the letter had been sent from Persia.

Giles recalled only too well the last communication that had come addressed to his wife from Persia. The cruel parcel containing grisly news of Erik's death had nearly destroyed her. He could never allow that to happen again. Even though the name on the envelope was his wife's, Giles tore open the flap.

 _My Dearest Annie…_

Giles felt his throat go dry as he read the words scrawled on the page. He held the paper a long time in his trembling hands, just staring at the spidery signature.

 _Erik._

 _Your Erik._

 _Her Erik._

Could this possibly be true? Could Antoinette's former fiancé possibly still be alive?

 _No_ , Giles shook his head. This had to be a trick. They had received word—they had received _proof_ —that Erik had died. He could not possibly still be alive.

 _All you received was a box of hair. People cut their hair all the time._

Erik's letter spoke of some sort of captivity. It was not unusual, he knew, for prisoners to have their hair shorn to help control lice infestations. Is that what had truly happened to Erik? Had he committed some offense against the shah for which he had been thrown in jail? Was he some sort of common criminal?

Giles thought back to the volatile young man he had believed was Antoinette's brother. He had always seemed prone to fits of anger and jealousy. It almost would not surprise Giles if he had flown into a rage with the wrong person at the wrong time.

 _But the way he wrote about Antoinette_. Giles felt his jaw clench as he reread the words of love and promises made to "Annie" in the letter. Words that spoke of their fiery passion—of their deep, abiding affection. The bond Erik felt with her was so apparent—so much stronger and more sure than the delicate connection Giles and Antoinette had only just begun to forge.

Would that connection break, Giles wondered, if he showed her this letter. If Antoinette thought there was even the slightest chance that Erik could be alive, would she still stay with him? Or would she run to Persia, and do anything it took to get him back?

 _He was already everything to me_ , Antoinette's words rang in his ear.

Giles sighed, slamming the piece of paper on his desk. There was no way he was going to show her this letter. Folding it back along its creases, he shoved it once again into the envelope. Antoinette was his wife—and they had begun to build a life together. He would be damned if he was going to disturb that life based on a flimsy note that might not even be telling the truth.

 _"…I promise to always be honest as well."_

 _"I know you always are, dear husband, …and you always have been."_

He had asked her for honesty—he had begged her to be open. And she had been. He knew very well how much she still missed Erik—how much she still loved the man. She claimed she loved him too, but could her love for him match her love for Erik? Giles had his doubts. Still, he had promised her honesty in return. And if he didn't show her this letter, he knew he would be breaking her trust. And he had worked so hard to get her to trust him.

Giles still was not certain what to do when the doors to his office flew open and Antoinette came bursting in.

"Giles!" she called with excitement as she ran toward him.

"Antoinette?" he asked, rising from his chair and crossing in front of his desk, the folded up letter still in his hand.

"Giles," Annie said, looking at him with shining eyes, "I'm pregnant!"

"Pregnant?" Giles asked her, not certain of what he was hearing.

"Yes, Giles," she nodded vigorously. "We're going to have a baby!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around his neck. "I am _so_ happy, Giles," she gushed, with a giggle. "I am so happy!"

"So am I, Antoinette," Giles returned as he wrapped his arms around her, tucking the folded letter into his trouser pocket. "So am I!"

 **AN: Oh poor Erik! He's so sick! But Yas took such good care of him. And she sent his letter! BUT, will St. Giles do the right thing? Especially now that Annie is pregnant? What do you think?**


	64. Chapter 64

CH 64

The illness that ravaged the prison lingered for about a week, and a few of the prisoners in the main cellblock actually died from dehydration. Yasmin gave praise to Allah that she had insisted on getting the key from the guards so that she could tend to Erik—he might not have survived that first night had she not.

As it was, Erik was severely ill for several days. Had it not been for Yasmin's continued persistence that he needed care he surely would have perished. She spent long hours with her friend, coaxing him to take the smallest sips of water, making certain to always have a cool rag to help bring down his temperature—and holding him tightly when he would suffer from the chills.

The delirium stayed with him until the fever finally broke, and the entire time he was afflicted he spoke to her as if she were Annie. He declared his love again and again, telling her that they would marry now that they were reunited —promising her he would never leave her again. Sometimes he reminisced about things they must have shared before their separation—like performing in the market square, or reading by the campfire in a cave. It broke Yasmin's heart to hear Erik's voice when he thought he was speaking to his beloved. There was hope there—a joyful lilt, despite his illness, that simply wasn't there when he was aware that Annie was not at his side. Yasmin prayed that the letter she had sent would reach Paris quickly, and that his betrothed would somehow find a way to break him out of this prison. Yasmin found that she wished for his freedom, even more than she wished for her own—for it seemed unnatural that two hearts bonded so strongly together should ever be separated.

Yasmin knew the fever had finally left him when she arrived one morning to find him wearing his mask. He had shed the facial covering when he was sick—most likely due to the discomfort of the fever. Yasmin had been a bit shocked to see the deformity that he had always been so careful to hide, but she'd put it aside, since she had been so worried about him. When he was in the worst throes of the illness, his mask had never even been a concern. But now that he was donning it again, she took it as a sign that he was feeling better.

"Erik!" she called, when she'd entered the chamber to see him resting his masked head comfortably upon the pillow she had snuck in for him.

"Yasmin," he responded, still sounding a bit weak.

"Are you feeling better?" she asked, fitting the key to the lock, and entering his cell.

"Yasmin!" he asked, sitting up a bit, a look of alarm spreading over his face. "How is it that you can open the bars?"

"The guards gave me the key, Erik, when you took so ill," she responded, tucking the key back into her skirt pocket for safekeeping, as she knelt down beside him. "You didn't think they were the ones who came down here and cleaned your cell and tended to your needs, did you?"

"Well, no," Erik responded, looking down at the pillow upon which his head had just been resting. "Surely, neither the guards nor any physician would have cared at all for my needs."

"Then you should be very glad that I did," she responded. "The ailment has been passing through the entire prison," she informed him. "Some of the more infirm men even died."

"I am very grateful, Yasmin," he nodded. "But I am perplexed. How did you manage to convince the guards to give you the key to my cell?"

"Well," Yasmin said, recounting her tale, "When I found you ill, I marched upstairs and demanded they give me the key," she told him matter-of-factly. "They did not want to comply at first, but I can be very persuasive."

"Stubborn is more like it," Erik retorted, with a chuckle that turned into a cough.

"Same thing!" she insisted. "And do you see what you get for laughing at me? Anyway," she continued, as she began to unwind her veil, now that it seemed unlikely that she would contract the illness, "I was very careful to return the key to them after every visit. They soon tired of being bothered by my constantly asking for the key, and simply hung it—separate from the rest of the ring—on a nail in the wall. I would collect the key at the start of my visit and return it when I left."

"Weren't they afraid for your well being?" he asked, incredulously. "Did they not fear that you would be overcome by such a dangerous criminal as myself?"

"They informed me in no uncertain terms," Yasmin said, rolling her eyes, "that if anything happened to me—or if you were to escape—that they would leave me in this cell to rot. They are not the most caring men."

"Obviously not," Erik coughed again, hard, and Yasmin thought nothing of reaching over and rubbing his back, having done so many times when he was ill with fever.

Startled by her touch, Erik stiffened, and flinched a little bit away.

"I'm sorry, Erik," Yasmin said, sheepishly. "I was only trying to help."

"No, it's…" Erik shook his head, recovering from the shock of being touched in kindness. "It's just that…I am not used to compassion, Yasmin. The people who have shown it to me have been few and far between. And no one has ever touched me so comfortably or cared for me when I was ill except for…"

"Your Annie," Yasmin interjected, completing Erik's thought, with a smile on her face. "Your angel."

His eyes narrowing in suspicion, Erik asked, "Yasmin, how do you know that I call her my angel?"

Yasmin's cheeks reddening just a bit, she told him, "You…you called me that when you were delirious with fever."

Erik's eyes widened in horror before slamming shut. He dropped his head to his hands, muttering " _Mon dieu_!" It was not a French phrase that Yasmin recognized, but she got the distinct impression it was not good.

"Erik," she told him, reaching out to pat his back again, but thinking better of it when she saw him tense. "You did nothing to be embarrassed about. You were sick, and you needed Annie to comfort you. I did not lie to you, Erik—I just let you believe what your fevered brain needed to believe to get better. And I would gladly do it again."

"Did I do anything inappropriate, Yasmin?" Erik asked, too mortified to look up. "Did I try to touch you…?"

"Never, Erik!" Yasmin vehemently denied, deciding it would be best not to mention that she had held him several times in her arms, at his request. "You were the perfect gentleman."

"I truly must have been out of my mind…" Erik retorted, and Yasmin knew that the awkwardness between them was almost over.

"Erik," she began, thinking this might be the right time to tell him what else she did for him when he was sick. "Have you given any more thought to possibly writing to Annie, and letting her know how you are?"

"Absolutely not!" Erik responded adamantly, sparking yet another coughing fit. "I do not want to contact her…I do not want her knowing what I have become." He added between coughs. "Besides…I will never get out of here…I can never return to her. What good would a letter do?"

"It might do some good for your soul…," Yasmin tried desperately to make him see reason, "to tell her once again that you love her."

"My soul is damned, Yasmin," Erik insisted, shaking his head. "And as for telling Annie I love her…" he trailed off and looked down, before adding quietly, "I tell her every night in my dreams."

Yasmin regarded her stubborn friend quietly for a moment. Obviously, it would be best to neglect to mention that she had already removed a letter from his sketchbook and sent it on its way to France. If Annie were to write him back, she would explain everything then. However, a plan was forming in her mind, and if it worked, they would not be there to receive any response that might arrive.

Pulling herself to her feet, she said, "Erik I have to go—so that the guards do not become suspicious."

Still not looking at her, Erik nodded.

Walking out of his cell, Yasmin locked the bars behind her, her fingers tingling with excitement as she held the key in her hand. Erik was still too weak right now, but soon—she was going to break him out of here.

Wrapping the veil once more around her face, she put her hand on the door.

"Yasmin," she heard from behind her, just as she was about to leave.

"Yes, Erik?" she asked, looking over her shoulder.

"Thank you again…" he said, sheepishly, "for taking care of me."

With a hidden smile Yasmin responded, "That's what friends are for."

* * *

Giles did not know why it hadn't occurred to him that Antoinette's mysterious illness could be a symptom of the joyous news she had shared with him, but he attributed it to being a new husband who was worried sick about his bride. Still as he stood there, holding his wife tightly in his arms, he could hardly believe what she told him was real. Certainly, they had performed the act necessary to create a child—time and time again, in fact—but procreating had not been at the forefront of their minds at the time. Giles had a hard time believing such a miracle had happened to them.

"I'm just so happy, Giles!" Annie exclaimed joyfully as she pulled away to look into his eyes. "A baby! We're going to be a family."

Giles felt his eyes moisten as he gazed at the beautiful woman before him. "I love you, Antoinette Giry!" he declared, as the tears ran down his cheek. "You have made me the happiest man in the world."

"And I you, Giles Giry," Annie sniffed, moving once again into his strong embrace. "And our baby!"

Not revealing their good news to anyone at the opera house, Giles promised Madame Delacroix anything she wanted so that she would give Antoinette the rest of the day off.

"Just place your order, Madame," Giles told her, as he and Annie climbed into their carriage. "And have them send me the bill. I don't even need to know what it's for," he assured her, putting his arm around his wife as they closed the carriage door.

"Hmph!" Madame had muttered, watching with her arms crossed as their coach rolled out of sight. "Newlyweds!" But she could not stop a smile from spreading over her face as she contemplated how much in love Giles Giry and his new wife appeared to be. "Your daughter did well for herself, Clarice," Madame said aloud to her old classmate's spirit. "And now, it is time for me to go shopping."

The Girys spent the rest of the afternoon, strolling around town, looking into store windows for things they could buy for their upcoming arrival. Cribs, bassinets, and little stuffed dolls were suddenly sources of endless excitement. When Giles later presented Annie with a little silver rattle, as they were getting ready for bed, she could not hold back a joyful laugh.

"You do know that our baby will not arrive for many months, don't you Giles?"

"I know," Giles admitted, giving his wife a squeeze. "But I want our child to know she was loved from the very first moment I knew of her existence. Just as," he added, his voice growing softer as he traced Annie's cheek, "I loved her mother from the moment I knew of hers." And slipping the strap of his wife's nightgown over her shoulder, Giles joined his lips with hers for a kiss.

Their loving that night was soft and tender, Dr. Janvier having assured Antoinette it was perfectly safe for the baby, as long as they were gentle. But afterward, as his wife slept peacefully with her head nestled on his chest, Giles found that he could not rest. In the quiet moments of the night, thoughts of Erik plagued his mind.

Had he done the right thing in intercepting the letter for Antoinette? It had been addressed to her, not to him. No matter where it had come from and what it contained, Antoinette was a fully-grown woman, not a child. Did he have any right to keep its contents from her?

 _She is a fully-grown woman who is now carrying your child! That gives you the right to keep it from her!_

It was true…Antoinette was pregnant with his baby, and her well-being was paramount to him. It was his duty to protect her from harm, and see to her continued good health, and that of their child. It was his responsibility both as husband and father-to-be.

 _But why are you so afraid of a letter? his mind goaded him. Is it because her former fiancé might not be dead?_

The letter _did_ pose a danger to Antoinette if it made her believe Erik was not dead. Hadn't she convinced him once before, against his better judgment, to go with her to try to find Erik in Persia? Hadn't she sworn to go without Giles if he didn't agree? What good reason was there to believe that if she feared for Erik's safety, Antoinette wouldn't want to try and find him again? Simply because she was his wife? She could love her husband, and still care for the man who _would_ have been her husband if she had not thought him dead.

 _And that's the real reason you are not showing her the letter, isn't it, Giles? If Erik were not dead, Antoinette would have to choose between the two of you. And you are not certain, even as she lies beside you, naked in your bed, carrying your child in her belly, that she would choose you._

Carefully extricating himself from his wife's embrace, Giles pulled on his robe as he got out of bed and began to pace the bedroom floor, raking his fingers through his curls. Why should this plague him so? Antoinette was his wife! She was soon to be the mother of his child! She had already chosen him—promising herself to him, forsaking all others, for all eternity. Didn't her marriage vows mean he had already won?

 _You know very well that if Annie thought for one second that Erik was still alive, there would not have been any fight to win._

Giles looked over at his wife sleeping so peacefully in their marriage bed. She was so perfect, so beautiful. They had just gotten their marriage on the right track, and they were well on their way to becoming a family. Why should he share with her a love letter written by another man?

How could he risk it, especially when he didn't even know if any of this was real?

 _You promised her honesty. You vowed that she could always trust you. Do your words mean nothing?_

Heaving a deep sigh, Giles walked over to the writing desk at the corner of their room. Taking a piece of paper from the drawer, he picked up his pen and began to write a letter to the only person he thought might be able to help.

 _Greetings and Salutations, Kaveh,_

 _I hope this missive finds you well. I am writing in hopes that you can help clear up a mystery that is a matter of great personal concern. About a year and a half ago, a certain young architect by the name of Erik arrived in Mazanderan to build a new palace for the shah. He was an acquaintance of my wife's, and we'd received word that he had unfortunately been killed in a construction accident last year. Just today, however, a letter arrived that was supposedly written by him, indicating, of course, that he might still be alive. Are you able to shed some light on the matter? My wife is incredibly troubled by this confusion, and wishes to know the truth. I thank you kindly for your help and anxiously await your reply._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Giles Giry_

Giles had just sealed the envelope and placed his pen back on the desk when he heard Antoinette's sleepy voice call to him.

"Giles?"

"I'm right here, Antoinette," he responded, shoving the envelope in the desk drawer as he turned back toward their bed.

Annie was lying on her side, her eyes barely open, her hair a disheveled cloud around her face. Still, she was the most beautiful woman in the world to him, and he felt his heart thrill when she opened her arms and commanded in a husky whisper, "I miss you, dear husband. Come back to bed."

Without a word, Giles crossed the room, shedding his robe as he entered her embrace. And with great joy, Annie intimately welcomed her husband back into her arms.

 **AN: Uh oh...so Erik might not be so happy about Yasmin's "favor." But Giles is completely torn up about it. WHAT a moral dilemma he finds himself in!**


	65. Chapter 65

CH 65

Kaveh leaned back in his chair, tapping the letter against his hands. The strange epistle had arrived this morning addressed to him, which in itself was odd. The last time he had received mail, it had been a note that he'd been asked to pass on to the Angel of Death. He supposed it should not surprise him then, that this letter too had come from Paris, and that it revolved around the very same man.

Erik.

The architect.

The angel…

Apparently, the mysterious man had recently sent a communication to an acquaintance of his who lived in Paris. This was, of course, impossible, on two accounts. First of all, Erik had sworn he had no acquaintances—that there was no one in his former life that would care if he were alive or dead. And secondly, the Angel of Death had perished at the hands of the shah, a victim of his own torture chamber.

He had tried to warn Erik—to bolster him against the shah's ruthless mind games. But unfortunately, the wicked ruler was masterful at what he did, and the young, idealistic architect never stood a chance. The shah read his inner vulnerabilities like an open book, and in no time the masked man had morphed into one of the deadliest weapons Mazanderan had ever possessed. Even after his execution, his savage legacy remained—his maze of mirrors still being widely used to silence the enemies of the shah.

But who would be sending the letter now? The man had been dead for over a year. Even if Erik had written such a letter before he had died, why send it now? And if Erik had not written it, who would impersonate the Angel of Death just to send a letter? And how would they know of Erik's connection to Giles Giry's wife?

Kaveh had met Monsieur Giry several years prior when he had come to Persia to seek the shah's patronage for Paris's new Opera House. Thankfully, Giry had been a smart man, immediately recognizing the shah for the scoundrel that he was. The young gentleman had departed Mazanderan before he could get caught up in the corrupt ruler's web of lies.

 _Why had Giry not warned Erik what the shah was? Had he tried? Had Erik refused to listen to Giry just as the frustrating masked man had refused to listen to him_?

Kaveh could make absolutely no sense out of this entire situation. But there was one thing he could do. He could clear up any misconceptions about who Erik was during his time in Persia. He could shed light on the mystery, as Giles Giry had so eloquently requested of him.

Taking a sheet of paper out of the desk's top drawer, Kaveh began to write.

 _Greetings, Monsieur Giry,_

 _I received your recent inquiry into the fate of your wife's relative, Erik and please allow me to assure you that he is, indeed, dead. While he yet lived, I was acquainted with the man, and though he may have come to Mazanderan to build a new palace for the shah, I must tell you, sir, that is not how he ultimately employed himself…_

* * *

Yasmin had to keep herself from skipping on her way to the guard office. It had been weeks since the illness had infested the prison, and things had mostly returned to normal. The guards, in their predictable laziness, however, had never returned the dungeon key to the key ring. It still hung from its nail on the wall, ready for her to come and retrieve it whenever she determined that her prisoner needed care.

And Yasmin's prisoner often needed care. She would bring him his three meals a day, of course, but she would often visit at other times as well. They had resumed their art lessons, and Erik told her she was beginning to improve. Yasmin wasn't sure if it was true, or if he was just being kind, but she decided that she would enjoy his praise when he gave it, because she did not hear it often from his mouth. In addition to art, he had continued teaching her words and phrases in French—which would come in handy after tonight.

Tonight was the night she was going to break him out—and they were going to run away to France. And he didn't even know it yet!

Erik had made a full recovery. He no longer coughed when speaking, nor did he need to remain seated for long periods of time. Though his appetite was still small, it had returned to normal—at least for him. He was stronger, and there was a healthy color to his skin—at least as healthy as his naturally pale skin color ever looked. Yasmin knew that it was time.

She had waited until the hour had grown late, knowing that darkness would be on their side as they were making their way across the courtyard. They could not risk other guards finding them.

The thought of other guards made Yasmin momentarily melancholy when she thought of her brother Kaveh. She wished she could have involved him in her plan, but she knew he would not approve. That was the same reason she had not told Erik either, knowing he would balk and complain about her idea being dangerous—claiming that he was not worthy to live life outside the prison walls. She was expecting his complaints, but she was confident that she could convince him she was right when she reminded him of how happy Annie would be to have him home. She only hoped that Erik and Annie would let her stay with them for a while—at least until she could get a job of her own. She could contact her brother then, to let him know that she was all right. Wouldn't he be surprised to receive a letter all the way from France!

She stood outside the heavy door to the office, and took in a deep breath. This was it! The last time she would have to come to this door—the last night she would live as a slave—the last moments of her captivity.

With a firm push, she opened the door only to see an unfamiliar face at the desk. The new guard looked gruff and unfriendly—even more so than the usual men who manned the station. He seemed to be absorbed in reading something in a large book. It did not matter, she told herself, trying not to feel flustered. None of the guards ever paid her any mind. She only had to reach up and grab…

…the key!

But it was gone! The nail in the wall was empty!

"Hey," Yasmin said, crossing over to the desk to get the new guard's attention. "Hey! Where's the key?"

Looking up with irritation at having been disturbed, the guard asked her seriously, "What key?"

"The key that had been hanging right there," Yasmin clarified, pointing to the nail in the wall.

"Someone had mistakenly hung the key to the dungeon on that nail," the guard informed her, seeming bored already by her presence. "It should not have been there, so I returned it to its proper place on the key ring." And looking down at his book, he began to read once more.

"No," Yasmin protested. "No, it should have been there! I use that key when I have to tend to my prisoner—who is ill and needs my help."

Looking up again in annoyance, the guard stated, "None of the prisoners are sick any longer—they have all either recovered or died—either way, none of them require any extraordinary care, so there is no need for you to have any close range contact with any of them."

"But you don't understand," Yasmin insisted. "The prisoner in the dungeon is still sick. I do need to have contact with him—to check on his recovery and make certain he is alright."

"The prisoner in the dungeon is just as fine as the others," the guard said, folding his hands in front of him on the desk. "I saw to it on my rounds. I also saw that, unlike any of the other prisoners in the main cellblock, he had a pillow, a book, and pencils with which to write—all of which I confiscated."

"You what?" Yasmin asked in outrage.

"Did you bring him these things?" the guard asked suspiciously.

"What does it matter who brought him these things?" Yasmin tried to deflect his questions, realizing that she could be punished for her violations if this guard saw fit. "He is in isolation from the rest of the world for twenty four hours a day. He needs something to help him pass the time."

"The only thing he needs is for someone to bring him his meals. Which you did. Hours ago. You are no longer needed here, little girl," the guard informed her, turning back to his work.

Yasmin was frozen in her spot for a moment, truly not knowing what to do. She had waited so long for this night, storing away little bits of food from her rations every night, stashing clothes and maps into a makeshift knapsack—even secreting away a meager collection of coins that she had found lying about in her wanderings around the palace grounds. She had worked so hard for their escape, and she could not accept that it would all come to nothing. She _had_ to break Erik out and gain her own freedom as well. Things could not end this way.

But then, she saw it. The guard's key ring was resting on the bookshelf to the right of the door. All she had to do was reach over and grab it. He was so absorbed in his reading, he would never notice.

Yasmin inched over, closer to the bookshelf, knowing it was a foolish, desperate attempt, but compelled to at least try. She had her finger hooked around the ring and was just about to pull it off the shelf, when the guard looked up.

"Are you still here…" he began, but when he saw her hand on the shelf, he shouted, "Hey!" and jumped up out of his seat faster than Yasmin had ever seem a guard move before, grabbing her by the shoulders to keep her in place.

"Let me go!" She screamed, as she struggled against his hold, but it was no use. He was much stronger than her, and he was not about to let a common thief go free.

"I am marching you right back to the slave quarters, _little girl_ ," he informed her. "

"I am not so very little!" she spat, still trying desperately to break his hold.

"We'll let the slave mistress see about that!" he snarled, as he moved her out of the office.

The guard never loosened his hold on her as they made their way back to the slave house. Once there, he pounded at the slave mistress's quarters with a loud fist, demanding that she wake up. After a few moments, where Yasmin could hear rustling behind the thin walls, the slave mistress could be heard demanding, "What is the meaning of this," as she threw open her door.

Her eyes widening as she saw her young charge in the grips of the burly guard, she muttered, "Yasmin?" in a questioning tone.

"Is that the little thief's name?" the guard retorted with a snort.

"What are you saying?" the mistress shifted her eyes from Yasmin to the guard. "Why do you call her a thief?"

"I caught her trying to steal the keys to the prison cells," he informed her smugly.

"Yasmin!" the mistress exclaimed. "Is this true?"

"I needed to get in to help Erik," Yasmin insisted, looking down so that she would not see the disappointment in the mistress's eyes.

"Oh yes, help him," the guard rolled his eyes. "She has been helping him all right. I found all sorts of supplies that she has been smuggling in to him."

The slave mistress gasped as Yasmin defended herself. "It was only a sketchbook and some pencils—and a pillow on which he could lay his head. They have been treating him like a dog! If it were not for me, he would have died long ago."

"Like a dog?" the guard repeated incredulously. "He is a murderer."

"He is a man!" Yasmin answered. "And none of you ever cared to even check on him! It was left to me to care for him as I saw fit. And I did. There is no harm in that!"

"Yasmin," the slave mistress, put her arm around Yasmin's shoulders, trying to pull the girl toward her, so that the guard would let her go.

"He is a monster!" the guard retorted. "And it is no longer your duty to care for him in any manner!" Turning to the slave mistress, he said, "She is no longer allowed anywhere near the prison."

"No!" Yasmin protested, tears stinging her eyes.

"We should never have brought a little girl in to do a guard's job."

"I am not so very little!" Yasmin screamed, as the slave mistress used both of her arms to hold her back. "You can't keep me away from Erik."

Taking one final look at her, the guard shook his head in disgust and walked out of the slave house. When the slave mistress finally released her grip, Yasmin collapsed crying on the floor.

* * *

The nausea remained with Annie for at least another month, but now that she and Giles understood why she was waking every morning with an upset stomach, they found it much easier to cope. Giles would still sit with Annie and hold back her hair, kissing her forehead when the morning's episode would pass, but gone was the panic that something was truly wrong with his wife. Just about the time that the queasiness disappeared, Annie was filled with a renewed energy, and an increased appetite—for her husband. Many moments were stolen behind Giles's locked office door, when Annie's hunger grew too great to be denied. Giles had to admit, he did not mind this side effect of pregnancy one tiny bit, and he greatly hoped it would last longer than the morning sickness had.

Giles was still plagued, occasionally, with indecision about the letter that had supposedly been sent to Antoinette from Erik. He wondered if Kaveh would ever write back and explain what had truly happened with Antoinette's former fiancé. But whenever he would see his wife smile, those fleeting thoughts would be replaced with hopes for the future—their future, together with their child—who Giles was certain would be a girl as beautiful as her mother.

Giles and Annie had been aware of small changes in her body almost immediately, but around the sixth month of her pregnancy, when Annie's belly was becoming a bit more rounded, they decided it was time to share their happy news with Madame Delacroix and the other managers. Though they had discussed the possibility of her returning to dance after giving birth, Annie recalled how happy her own mother had been to exit the stage to raise a family. So Giles called a meeting in his office, and together, he and Annie broke the news that she would soon be taking leave of the Opera Garnier to become a mother.

"Good heavens," Moncharmin exclaimed, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief, "another pregnant ballerina."

Looking at his colleague with narrowed eyes, Richard reminded him, "Monsieur, they are married! You were at their wedding. There is nothing scandalous about them having a baby."

"Still," Moncharmin insisted. "It is unseemly of a ballet dancer to be with child."

Giles rolled his eyes and was about to respond to his fellow manager, when Madame Delacroix interjected, "That is why she is leaving us." Walking over to Annie, the matronly ballet mistress pulled her lead dancer into a warm embrace. "I am going to miss you so much, my dear," she said, tears clear at the corner of her eyes. "You were one of my best dancers!"

"And one of her greatest sources of perks," Richard muttered under his breath.

Shooting him a poisonous glare, Madame continued, "Antoinette, pay these two fools no mind! You were an absolute joy to have in my corps. Your mother would be so proud!"

Smiling warmly at her, and returning her embrace, Antoinette said, "Thank you, Madame. That means a great deal to me."

"Well, Gentlemen, Madame," Giles said, after a moment, nodding toward the other two managers and Madame Delacroix respectively, while walking over to the door and opening it wide. "This meeting is adjourned. It is time I get my wife home."

As Richard and Delacroix were filing out of Giles's office, Moncharmin paused a moment, reaching into his breast pocket. "Monsieur Giry," he said, as he handed over a letter, "This was waiting for you at the post office today."

Giles took the envelope, noting that the return address listed the Palace at Mazanderan as its point of origin. Kaveh had finally written back.

Feeling a lump form in his throat, Giles thanked Moncharmin and tucked the letter into his breast pocket, knowing that he would not be able to look at it until Antoinette was sleeping later that night. Then, placing his arm around his wife's shoulders, he said, "Let's go home, Madame Giry."

"Gladly, Monsieur Giry," Annie said with a smile that calmed his nerves, as they walked together down the hall.

 **AN: Oh Yasmin! Best laid plans…. You've certainly gotten yourself in trouble, and now, what will Erik do? And what on earth will the Opera house do without Madame Giry?**

 **AN: I also want to point out that I made a mistake in a previous chapter. I had Yasmin mention Erik's name to Kaveh back in CH 56, when they were talking in the garden. I meant to change that, but I forgot. I'm sorry. I have since fixed it, but please pretend that Kaveh never knew her prisoner was named Erik.**

 **Thanks!**


	66. Chapter 66

CH 66

 _Greetings, Monsieur Giry,_

 _I received your recent inquiry into the fate of your wife's relative, Erik, and please allow me to assure you that he is, indeed, dead. While he yet lived, I was acquainted with the man, and though he may have come to Mazanderan to build a new palace for the shah, I must tell you, sir, that is not how he ultimately employed himself._

 _Soon after his arrival, Erik fell under the shah's influence. He constructed a heinous torture chamber, which our depraved ruler uses even now to silence his opposition. For many months, Erik operated the chamber, delivering torment and death to its wretched occupants. He became known as the Angel of Death—and the sight of his imposing, black draped figure inspired fear throughout Persia. Eventually, however, Erik fell out of favor with the shah—I know not why—and he was, himself, executed—a victim of his own cruel torture chamber. I saw them lead him in, and I witnessed them removing his body afterward. I do not know who sent your wife the mysterious communication, but I can promise you that Erik, The Angel of Death, lives no more._

Giles watched the flames flicker and pop as he gazed into the hearth. It was difficult for him to reconcile Antoinette's description of Erik with the image Kaveh's letter created. Erik, the man whom Antoinette had promised to marry—the man to whom she had whole-heartedly given her love—had served as executioner to the shah. The man Antoinette always spoke of as loving and protective, had struck terror into the victims of the shah's cruel justice. The man whose accidental death in a construction mishap had broken Antoinette, causing her to collapse to the floor weeping, had actually met his end as a vicious, cold-blooded murderer.

Antoinette was sound asleep, after a long afternoon of shopping and making other preparations that would turn their house into a home for their upcoming arrival. Giles had been successful in pushing thoughts of the Kaveh's letter out of his mind, as he had walked, arm in arm with his wife through the finest shops in Paris. They made decisions— _together_ —on everything from a sturdy crib in which their child would sleep to their baby's first layette. It had been a joyous day, filled with many affectionate squeezes and happy smiles—and Giles had been struck with the realization that he and Antoinette were already a family—a family that would only grow stronger after their child was born.

As the head of the family, it was Giles's duty to protect his loved ones—and that was exactly what he had done by keeping _Erik's_ letter away from Antoinette. Kaveh's response had confirmed his suspicions that it was not real—as well as revealing chilling details about Antoinette's former fiancé that Giles would make certain she never knew. It would do her no good to know about Erik's murderous transformation. She should be allowed to remember her former love as he once was, not as the monster he became before his death. Her thoughts were mostly set on the future these days anyway, and that was how Giles preferred it.

Opening his fingers, Giles allowed Kevah's note to float down into the flames where it was consumed by fire. He released his own guilt as well. He had done the only thing he could have for his family. He had protected them.

Giles continued to watch as the page revealing Erik's misdeeds was reduced to ash. With a solemn, satisfied nod, he turned to climb the steps that would lead him back to his wife.

* * *

Yasmin was miserable. She had received a thorough tongue-lashing from the slave mistress the night that she had been expelled from the prisons for helping Erik—and though the kindly woman had never before been inclined to use physical punishment, Yasmin had been convinced that she just might.

"What were you thinking, Yasmin?" her mistress demanded of her loudly.

"I was thinking of helping my friend," Yasmin answered, from the spot where she was huddled on the floor.

"He is _not_ your friend!" the elderly woman shouted at her, frustrated by Yasmin's lack of understanding. "He is a prisoner—nothing more."

"You do not _know_ him," Yasmin protested.

"Neither do you, young lady!" the slave mistress declared. "And you shall never see him again either!" she added, causing Yasmin to wince and shut her eyes against the cruel words.

What would they tell Erik? Would they even bother to tell him anything? Would they punish him? Would they feed him? Would he eat?

 _Please Erik,_ she prayed inwardly, willing him to hear her, _please eat. For Annie._

"Get up and get to bed!" the slave mistress ordered harshly. "Tomorrow there is a full day of mending for you!"

When Yasmin did not immediately move, but only groaned, the mistress pulled her off the floor by her arm. "I said get up!"

As the following week drew to a close, Yasmin was quite certain that putting her back on mending duty was a punishment not only for her, but for every person whose clothes she had been forced to stitch. Her sewing had not improved any with her time away from the task, and Yasmin found herself rushing through her duties so that she could set off in search of a quiet place to draw. And worry. About Erik.

When she got the word to meet her brother at the signpost on the outskirts of town that night, she thought for sure, seeing him would be exactly what she needed to lift her spirits.

But it was not to be…

"What in Allah's name were you thinking, Yasmin?" he demanded of her, as soon as he saw her round the corner.

With a groan, Yasmin responded, "I have already been through this with the slave mistress, Kaveh. I do not wish to go through it with you as well."

"Trying to _free_ a prisoner, Yasmin?" he continued his tirade, not even having heard his sister over the din of his anger. "You know the shah is looking for you! Were you _trying_ to draw attention to yourself by doing something so impulsive? Are you _mad_?"

"I suppose I must be, Kaveh," she sighed heavily, "since I appear to be the only one in Persia who has a problem with the idea of throwing a man in a dark pit with a dirt floor and just leaving him to _ro t_ there in his own filth."

"He is a murderer, Yasmin!" Kaveh shouted.

"He is a man, Kaveh!" Yasmin shot back. "And a musician. And an artist. And a scholar. And my friend!"

"Your _friend_?" Kaveh asked incredulously. "You speak as if you are in love with him!"

"I am not in love with him!" Yasmin shouted. "I told you before! Erik is in love with Annie!"

"Wait!" Kaveh put his arm out to halt his sister's protests, as his eyes widened in shock. "Stop! Did you say your prisoner's name was Erik?"

"Yes, Kaveh," Yasmin answered with an irritated click of her tongue. "That is his name. Does that somehow offend you?"

"And that he was in love with a woman named Annie?" Kaveh questioned again, his eyes narrowing as realization began to gnaw at him.

"I've told you that before, Kaveh," Yasmin snapped, her hands on her hips. "Do you ever bother to listen to me?"

Kaveh had stopped listening to his sister's tirade, too distracted by the name that belonged to her prisoner. _Erik_.

The only Erik he had ever known was the young architect who had been morphed, by the shah, into a weapon to wield against the people of Persia. But surely, this prisoner could not be the same man! _That_ Erik—The Angel of Death—had met his end in the torture chamber he himself had constructed. Kaveh had been there to witness the execution. He _saw_ the tall man led into the chamber—and later, his lifeless body being dragged out. He was dead. He _had_ to be dead.

 _Or was he still alive, in the dungeon, giving his sister art lessons?_

Swallowing hard and beginning to hyperventilate, Kaveh turned from his sister and took several steps away.

"Kaveh," Yasmin asked, concerned now about her brother's strange behavior. "Are you alright?"

"Did you recently mail a letter for your prisoner?" he asked, turning swiftly back to face her. "A letter to Paris?"

Yasmin's eyes widened in shock. How could her brother know that? Even Erik didn't know that.

"I…I…"

"Yasmin!" Kaveh said sharply. "Did you?"

"He didn't know I sent it, Kaveh." Yasmin blurted, trying to make her brother see reason. "I took it from his sketchbook when he was delirious with fever. He didn't want to send it to her—but I felt maybe she would come for him…"

"And do what?" Kaveh roared. "Ask the shah nicely to release him? Would that have worked?"

"I don't know!" Yasmin yelled back at him. "I don't know because she never wrote back. But Kaveh," she asked, shaking her head. "Why are you so upset?"

"I am upset," he seethed through clenched teeth, "because my little sister lists a criminal as her best friend!"

Yasmin tried to protest over his use of the word little, but Kaveh's outburst could not be stopped. "I am upset because that same little sister—who is supposed to be keeping a low profile, by the way—plotted to set same criminal free from prison. A criminal who she _knows_ is a murderer, but doesn't see how that makes him a bad man. I am upset," he said again, moving a few steps closer now, causing Yasmin to flinch slightly away, "because what my little sister _doesn't_ know is that her friendly criminal isn't just any regular murderer. No, not at all. He is the very Angel of Death—the tormentor of countless innocent victims—who was supposedly executed by the shah over a year ago, but who was spared for some depraved reason that we do not yet know. _That_ is the man she tried to break out of prison. _That_ is the man she tried to set free! So you understand now, _little_ _sister,_ why I am so upset?"

Yasmin had sucked in a noisy breath at the revelation that her friend was the Angel of Death. She had never been one to spend much time in the palace courtyard—preferring the safety of the slave house to the commotion outside. She had heard tales of the Angel of Death, to be sure, but she had never seen the man at work. How could it be true? How could it be that the sweet, sensitive, artistic man she had come to know was the same man who ruthlessly tortured and later killed enemies of the shah? How could a heart that loved the way he loved Annie have the capacity to be so cruel?

"I…" Yasmin sputtered, looking down, "I…I'm sorry, brother. I didn't know."

"And yet," he said, his voice calmer now, at Yasmin's obvious penitence, "you were willing to risk your life. What did you think would happen to you once his absence had been discovered? Don't you think they would have realized you were the one that let him out? They would have brought you before the shah for sure."

"I did not plan to be here for that, Kaveh." Yasmin admitted, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat. "I had planned to go with him—to Paris…"

"And leave me here?" Kaveh asked, his eyes narrowed with a combination of shock and hurt.

"I…I…I planned to write to you once we reached Paris," Yasmin stammered. "In case you wanted to join us."

"Oh Yasmin…" Kaveh shook his head in disdain. "What on _earth_ were you thinking?"

* * *

Erik didn't bother to look up as the door to the dungeon opened. He knew it would not be sweet little Yasmin, who had brought light into his imprisonment as well as the food she harangued him into eating. When the new guard had raided his cell the other night, seizing the supplies Yasmin had so bravely smuggled in for him, Erik had a feeling he would not be seeing her again. Sure enough his trays were now delivered by brutish men who simply threw them on the ground on the other side of his bars, with no words of disappointment when they returned to find that the food had not been touched. Since Yasmin had stopped coming, Erik had lost his appetite.

"You!" Erik heard a familiar voice sneer, and he turned to see Kaveh—the guard who had cautioned him on his first day at the palace—the guard Yasmin said was her brother.

Jumping to his feet, Erik flew to the bars. "Do you have word of your sister? Is she all right?"

"How are you alive?" Kaveh asked, his head shaking, his voice dripping with disdain.

"It is all Yasmin's doing, I assure you…" Erik told him.

" _Don't_ say her name!" Kaveh interjected, raising his hand as if to block Erik's words, shutting his eyes against their offensive resonance.

"Is she all right?" Erik demanded, his voice growing frantic now. "Was she punished too harshly?"

"She will be fine," Kaveh spat, looking back in Erik's direction, "Even if she is mortified about being manipulated into helping a murderer."

"I never manipulated Yasmin," Erik told him quietly. "In fact, I begged her to leave me to rot. But she refused to listen. Anything she did for me was out of her own generous spirit."

"Including trying to break you out of jail?"

"What?" Erik asked incredulously, taking a few steps back from the bars. "What are you talking about?"

"Yasmin was caught trying to steal the guard's keys so that she could come down here and help you escape."

"But that's," Erik shook his head back and forth. "That's ridiculous!" Muttering under his breath, he added, "That little _fool_ of a girl!"

"Exactly!" Kaveh agreed. "But that's my sister. Soft hearted to a fault and trying to see the good in everyone—even the Angel of Death!"

"Please tell her…" Erik began, but was stopped when Kaveh interrupted.

"I will tell her that you should be dead," Kaveh spat. "For the hell you have unleashed upon Mazanderan, Erik, it would truly be better if you had never been born."

And with an angry turn, Kaveh stormed out of the dungeon and slammed the door behind him, leaving Erik alone in darkness once more.

* * *

Giles and Antoinette had once again slipped away to their escape in the country, huddling together in the back of the coach this time since Antoinette's very pregnant belly made a ride on Viggo impossible. A cake had greeted them upon their arrival, sitting on the dining room table, alongside a vase full of fresh daisies.

"Happy Anniversary, Darling" Giles murmured in her ear, at the sound of her delighted cry.

"Happy Anniversary, Giles," Annie responded with a smile, tilting her head up for a kiss that lingered as they made their way to the bedroom, both deciding to leave the cake for later in search of something sweeter.

Afterward, Giles's fingers tangled in Antoinette's hair, and her hand rested lazily on his hip as they kissed their way back to reality.

"Mmmmmm," Giles purred against the softness of her lips. "I am truly the luckiest man alive."

"Oh yes?" Annie asked, a crooked smirk lifting the corner of her lips. "And why is that?"

"Well, not only has it been an entire year since you took me as your husband," he began, placing a sweet kiss on her forehead, "but any time now, you shall be giving birth to our beautiful daughter, with raven locks and a dancer's grace!"

"Oh Giles," Annie chuckled at her husband's continued insistence that he knew their baby would be a girl. "Perhaps it will be a son, with a mop of pale curly hair and the unbounded energy of a golden retriever!"

"No, Antoinette," he shook his head, amusement shining in his eyes, " _I_ am top dog around here, and I tell you, we are having a girl!"

"Well, whatever we have, _Fido_ ," she said with a giggle, not able to resist extending her husband's joke, "we had best come up with a name for it, or we will be calling it 'Little Giry' for the rest of its life. What about…" Antoinette began, offering up the first choice, "Jonathan?"

"Hmmmm. . . Jonathan Giry," Giles said with a very serious look on his face. "It does have a certain ring to it. I like it. _If_ we were to have a boy. _Which_ we won't. So, forget it."

As Giles's face broke out into his usual happy expression, Annie delivered a gentle swat to his behind. "Giles Giry, you are impossible!"

"Why thank you," he chuckled, pulling her close for a tight squeeze. After another quick kiss, he asked softly, "What about the name Marguerite? After our afternoon in…"

"…The daisies," Annie finished his thought with a knowing smile.

"That was the true start of our life together, Antoinette," Giles reminded her tenderly, stroking his fingertips up and down her arm. "With nothing and no one to come between us. It might have even been the day," he added, placing his palm on her distended belly, "that this perfect child was conceived. The timing is about right…"

"I think it's the perfect name, Giles," Annie agreed softly.

"It is certainly better than Buttercup," Giles told her with a deadpan expression, which crumpled into giggles when Annie tucked her head in his chest and laughed at the memory of the other flower that had populated the meadow that fateful day.

When their silliness had at last abated, Giles shifted lower in the bed, so that his face was at the level of her belly. "Jonathan," he called, "Marguerite, whoever you are. Your mama and papa cannot wait to meet you. We love you so much." Placing a kiss on her belly, Giles gazed up at Annie and whispered, "And I love you so much, Antoinette."

"And I you, Giles," Annie said back, tangling her fingers into golden curls as her husband snuggled close to her and they both drifted off for an afternoon nap.

 **AN: So...it seems that Erik and Kaveh had a reunion-but it didn't go very well. And now that Kaveh knows Erik is alive, I wonder if he'll write another letter...But on a happier note, looks like Baby Giry has a name now... :)**


	67. Chapter 67

CH 67

Life in the slave quarters was an unending bore for Yasmin, once she had been removed from her prison duties. It seemed that all she ever did was mend torn garments—leading her to wonder how the residents of the palace could be so careless with their clothing. Day after day, it was always the same—prick the fabric, pull the thread through, cross the needle over, prick the fabric again. She was not asked to help with the cooking. She was not needed to tend the garden. All she was ever allowed to do was sew—and the whole time, the mistress sat there in the room, a watchful eye always trained upon her, making certain she did not again try to escape.

It was probably a good thing too, Yasmin had to admit, as she yanked her needle through yet another piece of torn cloth. Given the opportunity, she knew that she _would_ try to escape. Not forever—not away from Mazanderan—but only for a few hours, so that she could check on Erik.

Despite what her brother had told her about Erik's true identity her feelings of friendship for him had not changed. She simply could not reconcile the horrific deeds of the shah's former executioner with the sweet, gentle ways of the sad prisoner she had come to know. She worried if he would eat without her there to encourage him. She wondered if he was lonely. She knew by now his candles had run out—and she hated to think of him sitting alone in the dark, for hours on end—wondering why she had abandoned him.

But slipping away to the prison was proving an impossible feat. Yasmin was always being watched. She was barely allowed to go outside—even just to feel the sun on her face. Whenever she thought she might have a minute to steal away to a quiet corner and draw, someone would always appear to talk to her, or to give her something to do. She had always been a friendly girl, who hadn't minded company, but the constant hovering of the slave mistress and the other girls in the house was becoming stifling. Especially since the tasks they asked of her were often menial, and the conversations struck up were always forced. "Here are some more shirts, Yasmin," "Are you finished with that dress yet, Yasmin?" "Isn't sewing fun, Yasmin?" When Yasmin had glared and snapped, " _Je déteste ça avec chaque fibre de mon être_ "—using her newfound knowledge of French to express her hatred for the task, she earned herself a few moments of peace, her companion having been caught completely off guard. But it did not last long, for soon the slave mistress intervened with a harsh scolding about speaking in that "filthy tongue," and Yasmin sighed and went back to her work. At least, when she was in the slave house, she didn't have to wear her veil.

This mundane existence was what led to the tingle of excitement that ran through her veins, when the news came of the great banquet to be held in a week's time. She knew there would be much to do—many out of the ordinary tasks that would need tending. A pile of mending could not possibly take precedent over a royal function for foreign dignitaries! Finally, there would be something else to do.

The slave mistress continued with her task as Yasmin stood before her, begging her for details.

"How many guests will be there?" she pestered, her entire body jittery with enthusiasm. "How long will the gathering last? Will there be any other events? How can I help?"

Finally looking up with a disinterested expression, the slave mistress said, "You can make certain the serving garments are correctly fitted and the fine linens properly pressed."

Her face contorting in horror, Yasmin beseeched her mistress, "No! Mistress, please," she begged, "there must be something I can do at the banquet."

"Yasmin, all the other girls will be serving at the banquet," the older lady informed her with a dismissive wave of her arm. "There is no need for one more."

"Please, mistress!" she pressed, desperation now coloring her plea. "There must be something other than mending that I can do. I am capable. I work hard. Please let me help at the banquet."

The mistress looked sternly at her, making it obvious that her next words would be her last on the matter. "Yasmin," she said, slowly and deliberately, "with your history of questionable behavior, I simply cannot take the risk. You will not be working the banquet."

Yasmin's breath left her in a heavy sigh, and she shook her head in sadness. "No," she muttered, knowing her efforts were now hopeless. "Mistress, please."

"Leave me, Yasmin," the formidable woman commanded, "And tend to the duties you do have."

Her shoulders slumped in defeat, Yasmin walked out of the room, playing the slave mistress's words again and again in her mind.

 _…_ _All the other girls will be serving at the banquet… There is no need for one more_

 _…_ _All the other girls will be…at the banquet_

 _…_ _All the other girls …_

Yasmin stopped in her tracks. If all the other girls would be serving at the banquet, surely the mistress would have to go as well—to supervise.

And if they were all _there_ , "There would be no one here to know where I am!" she said aloud, her green eyes shining brightly as a plan formed in her mind.

* * *

Just as Yasmin had predicted, the slave house was empty on the night of the banquet, affording her the freedom to put her plan into action. Donning a clean serving dress, she wound her veil around her face for the first time since that fateful night at the prison. All of the slave girls would be wearing veils in the shah's presence, so the oft-troublesome garment would provide Yasmin the anonymity she needed to blend in with the other servants. Everything was working according to her plan.

The stars were high in the sky when Yasmin slipped out of the slave house, looking furtively all around, to make certain no one was watching. As she began to move toward the banquet hall, holding her head high to radiate the illusion of confidence, she felt her heart pulling her in another direction. Pausing momentarily in her path, she glanced over at the prison, noting its dark, imposing walls with a hint of sadness. Would anyone even bother to bring Erik's tray tonight? Would he have to go hungry if the guards were too busy with the banquet?

Yasmin changed course and hastened toward the prison. She shouldn't be doing this, she knew, but then again, she shouldn't be doing _any_ of this. What was one more broken rule?

Slinking inside the forbidding walls, Yasmin was grateful to see that the guard at the desk was not the one who had caught her and caused such a commotion. The single man currently sitting at his post seemed to be absorbed in his solitary game of cards, and Yasmin quietly snuck past, careful not to do anything to grab his attention. Gritting her teeth together, she once again made her way through the cellblock. The jeers and catcalls had long since stopped bothering her—she just hoped the delinquents were not making enough noise to alert the guards.

Walking down the stone staircase that led to the dungeon, Yasmin felt her anticipation build with every step. She could not wait to see her friend again. She only hoped he would not hold any animosity against her, for not visiting him for so long.

Pushing open the heavy door, Yasmin shone her little lantern into the darkness.

"Erik…" she called, squinting to see if she could make out his shadow. "Erik, it's me. Yasmin."

Out of the silence, Erik suddenly appeared at the bars. "Yasmin! What were you thinking?"

With a heavy sigh and a roll of her eyes, she retorted, "Really, Erik? Is this the _official_ way of greeting me now? I seem to hear it so often…"

"Well, you have only your own perplexing actions to blame, you foolish girl!" he snapped, the weeks of worry and confusion he had been suffering because of her confounding actions finally bubbling over. "Trying to break me out of prison? How do you expect to be greeted?"

"How did you know about that?" she asked with a start, wondering if the guards had gleefully mocked him with retellings of her unhappy tale.

"Your brother charged down here and accused me of manipulating you into helping me escape," he informed her.

"Well," Yasmin forced a smile, looking exceedingly uncomfortable and embarrassed, "that must have been a lovely visit."

"Honestly," he continued, completely ignoring her attempt at humor, "how did you expect me to react?"

"A thank you would be polite…" she said, calmly, knowing his tirade was far from over.

"For risking your life? On the likes of me—a murderer?" he asked with shock.

"For trying to return your freedom!" Yasmin retorted. "So that you could go home—to Annie. And live the life you deserve."

"Yasmin," Erik shouted, "this _is_ the life I deserve. I am a fiend! A murderer. So wicked that even my face pays testament to my perverted, abhorrent nature…"

"You are my friend!" she said firmly. "Erik, is Annie a fool?"

Taken aback momentarily by her unexpected words, Erik drew in a sharp breath. "How can you ask me such an insulting question?" he responded, taking great offense. "She is most certainly not a fool. She is the most intelligent woman I have ever known."

"Then how can she love you, if you are all the things you say?" Yasmin asked.

"Because she is an angel," he answered with great conviction, "and she overlooks my flaws."

"I think it is because she sees a man," Yasmin countered, "and not only the flaws, but also all the things that make him wonderful."

 _I see you, Erik,_ Annie's words echoed in his mind, and he was reminded once again how much this little imp of a girl reminded him of his beloved.

"Yasmin," he began calmly, "you should not have tried to break me out of here. It was foolhardy and unsafe. I could never forgive myself if anything had happened to you."

"Well, nothing _did_ happen to me, Erik," Yasmin responded, "except for a few pricks from a sewing needle."

"Mending duty again?" he asked, touching the seams of the mask she had constructed for him long ago.

"Yes, and I must say, I haven't really improved," she chuckled. "But I am fine." Looking more closely at him, now that he wasn't yelling at her, she asked, "But Erik, you look so thin. Are you eating?"

"When I must…" he answered not quite able to meet her eye.

"Erik, you've got to eat…" she implored him.

"Why?" he asked her honestly. "Why should I keep eating to fuel this wretched body when I truly have nothing to live for?"

"Because you're my friend," she told him sincerely, tears forming in her eyes. "And I don't want you to die."

"Yasmin," Erik said quietly, "don't cry."

"Then promise me," she commanded. "Promise me you're going to try to stay alive."

"Alright," Erik said, tossing his hands in the air. "I promise."

"Mark my words, Erik!" Yasmin told him with a sniff, wiping the backs of her hands against her eyes. "One of these days you are going to get back to Annie."

"Yasmin…" Erik gave her a warning glare.

"I promise I'm not planning anything!" she assured him with a chuckle. "But I just feel it, in my heart, that one of these days, you're going to be back together."

"It would take a miracle," Erik said, shaking his head.

"Miracles can happen," Yasmin insisted, with a smile. Then, after a moment, she said, "I must go before I am discovered. Besides, I am serving at the banquet tonight…"

" _Absolutely not!_ " Erik growled, his eyes wild with concern and fear.

"You know, Erik," Yasmin said, sardonically, "I really think Kaveh is rubbing off on you. Does he visit often?"

"Your brother is perfectly correct to be protective of you, Yasmin," Erik spat, "since you obviously have no concept of protecting yourself."

"I see that you two _did_ bond over how much of a child you think I am," she huffed in annoyance that her friend, just like her brother, could not give her any credit for knowing what she was doing. "Do not fret, Erik. I will be home before my bedtime!"

"You know you must be careful, Yasmin!" Erik said, trying to make her understand his cause for alarm. "The shah…"

"…Will be so busy entertaining his guests, he will never notice me," she assured him, with a sickly sweet smile. "I will be fine. And then perhaps you _and_ my brother might finally realize that I am not so very little anymore!"

"Yasmin!" Erik tried once again, but it was no use…

"I must go!" she interjected, reaching the end of her patience for his nagging. "I will attempt to visit again… _if_ I can," she added a trace of sadness mixing with the irritation in her voice. Reaching out, she gently touched his fingers, which were still curled around the bars, "Farewell, Erik…and _do_ try not to die."

With that, she turned and took her leave, as Erik shouted after her, "Yasmin! Yasmin, come back here this instant! Yasmin!"

When he realized it was no use, Erik stared at the heavy door that was now shut between them. Knowing she would not hear him, Erik called one final time, "Please be careful, Yasmin."

* * *

Kaveh opened the door to the slave house, calling, "Yasmin, I've come to visit!" At his insistence, the slave mistress had done an excellent job of keeping his sister busy and monitored these past few weeks, but duty forced her to be at the banquet tonight, and she did not have enough girls that she was comfortable leaving someone behind.

"Not using Yasmin to serve is stretching me as it is," she explained. "I cannot leave someone else with her. We will be short staffed at the banquet, and who knows what sorts of things your sister might get another girl involved in? She desperately wants to help work the banquet, and I am not certain one of my other girls would be strong enough to dissuade her, should she decide to go anyway."

Kaveh had nodded that he understood, and vowed to make his own arrangements. It had been difficult to get the night off. It was the expectation that he would be escorting the shah's guests to and from the banquet hall. There were colleagues, however, who owed him favors, so he had convinced one of them to cover for him, and had gone to meet Yasmin as soon as he'd been able to get away.

When his sister did not acknowledge his presence, Kaveh walked farther into the house, calling out again, "Come on, Yasmin. I'm not here to yell at you. I just wanted to spend the evening visiting with my sister." He made his way through the parlor into the kitchen, and then slowly began to climb the stairs. "Everyone else is at the banquet, so there's no risk of anyone seeing us. We can catch up and relax—I might even let you beat me at a game of cards."

Kaveh finally reached the communal bedroom, with still no response from Yasmin. Knocking on the door, he called, "Yasmin, this isn't funny. Answer me right now!"

She still didn't respond, so Kaveh huffed and pushed open the door.

To find the room empty.

"Yasmin!" he shouted this time, dread beginning to fill his soul. "Yasmin, are you here?" He turned and ran noisily down the stairs, two at a time, calling out her name repeatedly as he went. He was convinced that the dead could hear him yelling. But still his sister didn't answer.

Standing in the parlor, hands on his hips, with an angry scowl on his face, Kaveh took a minute to think. Yasmin was not anywhere in this house—of that, Kaveh was certain. But where could she be?

 _She desperately wants to help work the banquet, and I am not certain one of my other girls would be strong enough to dissuade her, should she decide to go anyway._

"Dammit, Yasmin!" Kaveh groaned, as he rushed out of the slave house in the direction of the dining hall. "Why can you _never_ do what you are told?"

* * *

The din in the banquet hall made her head pound, but Yasmin welcomed the pain. For the first time in the past several weeks, she truly felt alive. The swirling colors, succulent scents, and loud, resonating sounds of laughter and music filled her senses. It was a huge departure from the sewing room—however temporary it may be—and Yasmin was not about to complain about a little headache.

As she had suspected, all of the other serving girls were wearing outfits identical to hers, the only distinction being the varied hues. Royal blues, saffron yellows, and pinks that blushed like roses wove in and out of shifting crowds, serving meats, pouring wines, and clearing away empty platters so that they could be replaced with full ones. There was much work to be done, and even with Yasmin's help it never seemed like there were enough hands to do it all. She could not imagine why the slave mistress had been so adamant about her not helping. She was certain that if her mistress had been able to pick her out from the crowd of other servers, she would actually thank Yasmin for her help. Yet, not willing to risk her mistress's wrath, she did her best to stay out of the older woman's path as she served and poured along with the other girls, wearing a gown of rich jade.

The noise level mounted steadily as the night grew long, the drink bringing the merriment out of the important men that had gathered for the shah's feast. When it was time to bring out the dessert course, Yasmin was right in the mix of the other girls as they picked up their trays. Though she had been thoroughly enjoying the festivity of the evening, she was no fool. She had been careful not to serve the shah's table, always counting on one of the other girls to do that.

She had been carrying a large tray heavy laden, with cookies, pastries and baklava when above the general celebration she heard a loud shriek and a thunderous crash. Looking over her shoulder, she saw a fellow slave girl sprawled out on the ground, her tray full of treats scattered all over the floor.

"Are you all right?" Yasmin asked, concerned for the girl's welfare, as she had not yet gotten up from her fall.

"Please," the girl responded through gritted teeth, grabbing her ankle, her face turning a bright shade of crimson, "take my table. They must be served first."

"Of course," Yasmin agreed, wanting to do whatever she could to help her fellow servant. "Which one is your table?"

"That one," she said, wincing in pain as she lifted her arm to point to a specific table in the dining hall.

Yasmin followed the direction of the girl's finger and felt her heart sink. The table the wounded girl had been heading toward was the shah's!

Swallowing hard, knowing that it was custom for the shah to be served before any of his guests, Yasmin nodded her head. She began to walk slowly in the ruler's direction, reminding herself of the many reasons that she was going to be all right. He had only seen a glimpse of her, so many months ago. He could not possibly recognize her from behind her veil. It was dark in the banquet hall, and she looked just like all the other slave girls. There was no reason to believe he'd even look up at her as she set down her tray. There was nothing to fear. Everything was going to be fine.

 _Your eyes, Yasmin_ … _He will know you by your eyes._

When she reached the head table, she set down the tray in front of the shah, bowing her head as he examined its contents, making certain her eyes could not be seen.

"Mmmmmm…" He purred, and Yasmin could smell the sickening odor of excessive drink on his breath, "…delectable!"

Yasmin kept her head low, as she felt his eyes travel from the tray of confections up the line of her torso only to rest on the column on her neck.

"Yes," he drew out his breathy reply. "Absolutely scrumptious."

Again Yasmin made no response, but she felt beads of sweat forming beneath her veil.

"You're a shy one, aren't you?" the shah asked, unmistakably talking directly to her this time.

Yasmin remained quiet, trying to calm her pounding heart as his finger trailed over the selection of treats, making certain to choose the very best one. "This one," he said at long last. "This is the one I want." And then, after a pause, he added, "Serve me."

Yasmin felt the room begin to spin as his request registered in her mind.

"Excu…" she started to say faintly, clearing her throat, which had gone suddenly dry, "excuse me?"

"I want you to serve me, girl," the shah insisted, "Place that luscious morsel into my mouth." When Yasmin remained frozen in disbelief, the shah firmly added, "Now!"

Her chest heaving Yasmin used a trembling hand to grasp the pastry that the shah had selected. Oh why had she not followed orders tonight? What good was it to feel alive when inside you wished you were dead?

Her hands shaking so hard she was sure the sweet morsel would crumble into nothingness before she could perform her duty, she lifted the cake to his mouth. She thought she might be ill when felt his lips closing over her fingers.

"Mmmmmmm. . ." the shah purred, as he swallowed his dessert. "Another."

The pounding in Yasmin's head drowned out the murmurs of the shah's dining companions, who were themselves growing somewhat uncomfortable at the ruler's lurid display. She could not have heard the man correctly, she told herself, as the wind rapidly left her lungs. She was _not_ going to have to perform that revolting act again.

"I said," the shah repeated, a bit of irritation entering his voice. "I want another."

Yasmin merely stood there, her eyes closed, shaking her head. "No," she whispered. "No."

"Do you dare deny the shah?" he growled at her, standing at his full height to exhibit his displeasure with her impudence. The music stopped, and all attention was drawn to the commotion between the shah and the slave girl who had defied him. "Look at me when I talk to you, girl," he snarled, reaching forward and roughly clutching her chin, forcing her face up so that he could glower at her.

But the shah's sneer faded into a loathsome smile when he saw Yasmin's eyes staring back at him, frantic with terror, shining with tears. Staring out beneath thick black lashes, were the two priceless emeralds he had been seeking for such a long time. Reaching forward and tearing the veil from her face, he saw that they were joined by rosy cheeks and full, rounded lips the color of cherries fresh off the tree.

"My sweet," he murmured, as his fingers left her chin to trace the outline of her mouth, forcing their way between her lips.

"Unhand my sister!" came the deafening shout as the banquet doors flew open and Kaveh bolted into the room, barreling his way over to his sister to yank her from the clutches of the shah.

 **AN: OH, Yasmin. You've made SUCH a mess!**


	68. Chapter 68

CH 68

The festive sounds in the banquet hall hushed at once, as the crowd gaped at the spectacle taking place before them. The Palace Guard were momentarily stunned at such an action performed by one of their ranks, but with a single snap of the shah's fingers, they immediately surrounded Kaveh and Yasmin, swords drawn.

"Your sister?" the shah asked, a glint of vindictive amusement in his eyes as he slowly circled the encroachment of guards.

"I'm sorry Kaveh," Yasmin muttered weakly, as he pulled her to him and tried to shield her from the licentious gaze of the shah. "I'm so sorry."

"I beg your pardon," the shah said with false sincerity. "I had no idea she was your _sister_ , since you denied any knowledge of her existence when I first made mention of her."

"You asked me about my lover," Kaveh refuted, breathing heavily as he pressed Yasmin's head into his chest, "and I told you I had none. I did not know you were actually talking about my sister—who is barely more than a _child_."

"Even when I mentioned her green eyes?" the shah asked innocently. "I believe you yourself told me that green eyes were very rare. I might have expected you to remember that your own flesh and blood possessed a pair."

"And did you truly expect me to give my own _flesh and blood_ over to you for your harem?" Kaveh spat, baring his teeth at the lascivious man, all pretense of ignorance fading from his manner. "She is but 13! She is only a little girl!"

"Oh, I beg to differ," the shah disputed, a confident glint in his eyes. "She is not _so_ very little," he added, as a sordid smile spread over his face.

Yasmin winced and huddled even closer to her brother when she heard her own words spoken in such an unsavory manner.

"You nauseating miscreant!" Kaveh sneered, turning so that his entire body blocked Yasmin's from the shah's view. "You will _never_ touch my sister."

"Really," the shah smirked, raising his right eyebrow in amusement. "I'd like to see you stop me."

The shah gave his men a silent nod and Yasmin screamed as one of the guards tore her roughly from her brother's grasp.

"Kaveh…" she tried to hold on to him, crying in her fear, but it was no use.

Kaveh crouched low to the ground in a fighting stance, dagger in his right hand, his left hand extended outward. He was not afraid to fight for Yasmin—he would happily go to his death if it meant her safety. But she was currently in the clutches of the shah's henchmen, and there would be no safety for her if he did not come out of this fight alive. He looked into the eyes of his brothers in arms—all men with whom he had trained in the art of battle. It was clear in every one of their eyes, that despite past camaraderie, they would do the shah's bidding—even if it meant ending his miserable life.

"Please don't hurt him," Yasmin sobbed, as she bent forward in her grief, held up by the burly arms that confined her. "Please don't hurt my brother…"

"Your brother's continued safety, my sweet," the shah said, pointedly, "is a matter of his own choosing."

Torn between wanting to fight, and knowing that his sister needed him alive, Kaveh took a deep, steadying breath. Tossing his dagger to the ground, he held his arms up in surrender, keeping his eyes on Yasmin the whole time.

With icy detachment, the shah ordered, "Seize him," and immediately there was a guard on each of Kaveh's arms, holding him in place.

"No!" Yasmin shrieked, in disbelief that her yearning for adventure had led to such dire consequences. "Kaveh!"

"Let me go to her!" Kaveh shouted—his eyes poison daggers pointing at the shah.

The shah waved his hand, signaling that he would allow it, and Kaveh's two captors guided him over to Yasmin, never letting go of his upper arms.

"You will be safe, little sister," Kaveh assured her gently, lifting his hand to stroke her cheek. "I will see to it."

"I'm sorry, Kaveh," Yasmin shook her head in grief. "I'm sorry."

"Shh…" Kaveh soothed, knowing that this was not the time for lectures. "I will be fine. You just protect yourself, little one."

"Kaveh, no," she shook her head. "They can't take you away. You're all I have…"

"Oh, I hate long goodbyes!" the shah huffed, his patience for their extended farewell at an end. "Get him out of here!" he commanded, waving his hand.

The guards tightened their grip on Kaveh and began to pull him away in compliance with the shah's orders.

"Kaveh!" she exclaimed, her eyes frantic as she fruitlessly struggled against her captor.

"Yasmin, I will be fine," he said, trying to smile, as the guards dragged him off.

"Brother!" she screamed, as she saw him being pulled farther and farther away.

"Keep your chin up, Yasmin," he called back, his heart breaking to see her so forlorn. "I love you, little sister," were the last words Yasmin heard as the guards pulled him from the hall, and slammed the door shut behind them.

"No!" she wept bitterly when her brother was out of sight. "Kaveh, come back!"

Looking incredibly smug, the shah addressed his guests. "There!" he said triumphantly. "Now that _that_ bit of unpleasantness is out of the way, let us resume our festivities!" With a clap of his hands, the musicians once again began to play, and a nervous chatter—much more muffled than it had been before—began to fill the room.

Yasmin's body went limp—the only thing holding her up were the brutish arms of the guard behind her. Supremely satisfied with the evening's turn of events, the shah approached her, nostrils flared, the left corner of his mouth curved upward in a pompous smirk. Reaching a hand forward, he tipped her chin up so that he could gaze into her emerald eyes, now vacant and tinged with red.

"There, there, my sweet," he said, in a misguided attempt at comfort, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone, making her skin crawl. "Everything will be all right now. For tonight, you shall be mine."

Giving the signal for the guard to release her, the shah took her flinching form into his arms. Leering at her hungrily, as a cat would a mouse, he brought his lips to hers, placing an unyielding hand at the back of her head, so that she could not pull away.

When the kiss was over, the shah murmured huskily in Yasmin's ear, "until tonight…" as he released her from his grasp. And, the room suddenly going black around her, Yasmin crumpled to the floor.

* * *

"She cannot be yours tonight sire," the elder stated with great conviction, trying to get his point across while maintaining a healthy humility. He was rightfully wary of upsetting the shah, but there were just some laws the heavy-handed ruler could not rewrite. "You would have an all-out rebellion on your hands."

The shah had ordered Yasmin to be carried from the floor of the banquet hall back to his harem, where she would be prepared for him to come to her as soon as he could make a graceful exit from the resumed festivities. Just as he was rising to leave, however, a group of his chief advisors huddled around him, demanding that they speak with him in private.

"This had _better_ be good," he snarled, as he followed the wizened men into a sequestered meeting chamber, thoughts of possessing his green eyed prize already making his blood boil with lust. Dropping heavily into a chair at the end of a long wooden table, he thumped his thigh distractedly, waiting for his advisors to say their piece.

"Your excellency, have you forgotten who the _young_ lady is?" his chief council began, hoping his emphasis on the word young might make some impression on the passion blinded man. "That is Yasmin Emandar—your late nephew's daughter."

"Yasmin…" the shah repeated, wondering if her skin would taste as good on his lips as her name did.

"Yes, sire," another elder nodded. "She was but six years old when her parents were…" the man paused, realizing that what he had been about to say would be but a reminder of unpleasantries the shah preferred forgotten. Clearing his throat, he amended his words, "…when her parents died. That must be why you did not recognize her."

"She has grown much since then," the shah remarked, reaching back in his memory for the image of a small girl with matted hair and dirt smearing her face.

"And yet," his advisor reminded him, "she is still a child."

Faced with the possibility of being denied his greatest desire, the shah gripped the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles grew white. "There are other young girls in the harem," he argued. "Yasmin is but a few years their junior. Age should not be an issue when the shah wishes to take a concubine!"

"That is another matter of concern, sire…" the chief council responded again, raising his finger in the air to make a point. "No woman of royal blood _can_ be placed in the harem. You are not permitted to take her as your concubine."

True anger flashing in the shah's eyes, he sneered, "Who do you think you are to permit or forbid _me_ from doing anything?"

"It is my honor and privilege to serve as your lead advisor, Your Excellency," the older man said with a nervous bow, knowing that the shah was not used to being deprived of what he wanted.

"You should remember that!" the shah spat.

"But I would be remiss in my duties, sire, if I did not remind you of the law," the older man added. "The people of Mazanderan have a long memory. They will know who she is. There will be a rebellion."

"I have crushed their rebellion before!" he snapped, leaning forward in his chair.

"Yes, your Majesty," his advisor nodded, "but your… _benevolent_ …treatment toward your nephew's progeny did much to mollify the masses. As it is, our allies and half of Mazanderan saw you throw your grandnephew into the dungeon just now. Like it or not, sire, until you produce a male heir, he is next in line for the throne, and he does have supporters."

"He is nothing but a liar and a traitor!" the shah barked, livid at the obstacles which seemed to be piling up against him. "Round up his supporters! They can accompany him to the torture chamber!"

Rising from his seat, a lesser advisor who had been watching and listening quietly to the entire exchange, remarked, "I might have a better idea, Your Excellency."

"Well let's hear it then," the shah snapped in irritation, glaring at the new advisor who was certain would make his life even more of a living hell.

"It is against the law for you to take a girl of royal blood as a concubine," the man began, stepping forward slowly, as all attention turned to him.

"So far, I have not heard anything new," the shah growled.

"However," the advisor continued, finger raised as if to make a point, "you would be well within your rights to take her as a bride."

Gasps were heard around the room as the shah's eyebrows rose in interest.

"Go on," said the shah, leaning forward in his chair and tenting his fingers together as he listened carefully to what the man had to say.

Feeling confident that his words had piqued the ruler's curiosity, the junior advisor continued. "It would solve many of your problems, actually. A marriage between you and the Emandar line would unite the two branches of the royal family. You would, of course, get to claim your _prize_ , so to speak, and if she were to bear you a son…"

" _My_ heir would be assured to sit on the throne of Mazanderan for all future generations," the shah interjected, his eyes aglow with excitement for the fortuitous angle by which to approach the situation. "Any hopes that lying, traitorous brother of hers ever had of ruling would be trampled once and for all. He and his supporters could rot!" he added, with a triumphant guffaw.

"Sire," the elder advisor cautioned, "there is still the matter of her age. By law, she must be sixteen to wed."

"So I will rewrite the law, to state that thirteen is the legal age for marriage—with consent of the shah, of course," he waved off the elder's concern. "And I am certainly not going to object." A new hope glistening in his eyes, he said, "I will only have to wait until the law takes effect to wed her. That does not mean I have to wait to enjoy her…"

"Your highness," the elder pressed, "It would be best if she should come to your marriage bed untouched. That way, no one could question that any child she produced would be yours."

"If it is the strengthening of ties that you seek," the lesser advisor, who had the idea of wedding the girl in the first place, chimed in, "it would be best to honor tradition. Spend the time in the interim with the wives you already have—to appease the jealousy they must surely feel…"

The shah glared at the man. "What do I care of their jealousy? They have born me nothing but daughters—useless girls, the lot of them. Yasmin will be the one to bear me a son!"

"Then do not taint her womb, sire, by lying with her now," the elder advisor pleaded.

"The wedding will surely come soon enough."

Emitting an animalistic growl, he finally conceded. "Guards!" he yelled. Immediately, his two best men appeared before him, awaiting his instructions.

"I want you to fetch Yasmin from the harem and bring her to the tower, making certain she has everything she needs. Tell the mistress to make certain that she is well trained in the art of pleasure! And while you're at it, have them send me over their two best girls. Is that understood?"

The two men nodded and departed at once to do the shah's bidding. When they were gone, the shah looked up at his advisors and asked, "What the hell are you still doing here? Get out!" he roared. "Get out of my sight!"

The advisors hastily dispersed, eager to be away from the shah and his wicked temper. With a disgusted huff, the shah exited the conference room and made his way back to his chamber, where he impatiently awaited his … company.

* * *

Kaveh woke to a throbbing pain in his skull. Lifting his fingers to touch the large knot on the back of his head, he winced as he recalled how it got there. As soon as he'd been out of Yasmin's view, he had tried to fight his way free from the guards. Not exhibiting an ounce of sympathy for their one-time comrade, however, his efforts were almost immediately met with a blow to the head from the butt of a sword.

Darkness had descended upon him and it remained around him still as he breathed in the musty smell of a dirt floor and felt cold iron pressing against his ribs. After another moment of orientation, he realized where he must be—in the dungeon. Groaning from twin pains of a sword piercing his side and a hammer smashing his skull, he tried to sit up. That was when he realized that not only was he in the dungeon—he wasn't alone.

"So you're finally awake?" he heard the question spoken by a golden voice laced with cynicism.

"Erik," Kaveh muttered, his head shaking slightly as he looked at the floor. "Damn!"

"You are right on both accounts, guard," the voice returned, mocking him. "I _am_ Erik and I am damned. Of course," he added sarcastically, "it would seem that we both are."

"You deserve to be damned, you devil," Kaveh spat in the voice's direction, "for all the murder and torment you have caused. But I did nothing other than try to protect my sister."

"Your sister?" Erik's voice asked, filling with alarm. "What has happened to your sister?"

"It is none of your concern…" Kaveh deflected Erik's question.

Suddenly, Kaveh's wrist was encased in a sharp and forceful grip. There was no doubt in his mind, at that moment, that any more pressure would have crushed his bones. "What has happened to Yasmin?" Erik repeated, danger dripping off of every syllable.

"The shah has her," Kaveh spat through clenched teeth.

"That foolish little girl!" Erik exclaimed, releasing Kaveh's wrist so that he could rake his fingers through his hair. "I begged her to be careful."

"Wait!" Kaveh interjected, turning his head in the direction from which the voice was emanating. He could not see Erik in the dark, but he could hear him—and he was not happy. "What do you mean you begged her to be careful?"

"She came down here today," Erik told him. "She told me she was going to the banquet tonight. I begged her to be careful."

"You begged her to be _careful_?" Kaveh shouted at him. "Why did you not forbid her to go?"

"I did forbid her to go!" Erik shouted back. "But I am in no position, as it were, to force the issue! What about you? Why weren't you protecting your sister?"

"I had no knowledge of her plan," Kaveh spat. "The slave mistress instructed her to stay away from the banquet.

"And how well did you think _that_ idea was going to go over with your _sister_?" Erik asked, fuming.

"About as well as it did," Kaveh admitted. "I went to the slave house to stay with her as soon as I could get away from work. But she was already gone. I just _knew_ she had snuck into the banquet, so I ran to the hall immediately, to find the shah with his hand on her arm, obviously recognizing her as the girl he had been looking for all this time."

"That villainous reprobate _touched_ her?" Erik asked, in a voice that was obviously straining to keep its calm.

"Yes!" Kaveh confirmed. "I demanded he release her, and I wound up being hauled out of there by the guards and brought here."

"What?" Erik demanded incredulously. "You did not defend her?"

"I was completely encircled by guards who had their swords pointed at my neck," Kaveh informed him through clenched teeth. "I had nothing on my person with which to fight except a dagger. I would have been run through seven times over before I made one cut! I was not, as you so eloquently put it, in a position to force the issue!"

"Some guard you turned out to be." Erik huffed in irritation, "You do nothing to inspire loyalty in your compatriots, and then you carry nothing but a dagger."

"I beg your pardon for not carrying an entire arsenal with me when I am planning to be off duty," Kaveh snapped sarcastically. "And even though I _was_ a guard, the shah inspires those in his employ to do heinous things—even to ones who are innocent! _You_ should know that, _Angel_ ," he added, his last word heavily laden with scorn.

Erik took a deep breath, reminding himself that what the former guard said was true. "I know well the horrific actions that the shah inspires in men. But somehow, Kaveh, we _have_ to get out of here. For your sister's sake."

 **AN: Oh, Kaveh! So fierce and protective. But he was truly stuck-and realized a dead brother would be of NO use to Yasmin in any way. And then, just when you think the shah's plan can't get any worse...it does. But now Erik and Kaveh are together. With two men so intent on her safety, Yasmin's gotta be saved, right? But oh yeah-they're BOTH stuck in the dungeon!**


	69. Chapter 69

CH 69

The sunlight shining in through her bedroom window revealed that the shah had not, in fact, come for her at the close of the feast. Yasmin supposed she should be relieved, that she was sitting on a cushioned chair in an opulent tower bedroom instead of lying among the smoky cushions in the shah's harem. But truly, what did it matter? She was still being held against her will—the luxurious chamber most assuredly a prison cell. And she had nothing to do but wait for her wicked, vile and repulsive jailor to arrive.

Why had she not listened?

Yasmin stared at her hands folded in her lap as echoes from the past played again and again in her mind.

 _You must keep yourself hidden, Yasmin… take pains to never allow yourself to be seen by the shah…_

 _Do not let your guard down, Yasmin!_

 _You obviously have no concept of protecting yourself…I will not be able to protect you…_

Kaveh had warned her. _Erik_ had warned her. Even the slave mistress had tried to keep her sequestered—safely hidden away from the shah. Yasmin had been safe. Why had it not been enough?

Why had it mattered that the people who were protecting her were also stifling her? Why had she cared that her brain would surely liquefy if she had to sew one more stitch? She was a slave whose duty in life was to serve and obey. Why could she not have been satisfied with her station? What right did she have to thrill and adventure? She'd enjoyed a happy, safe existence among her fellow slaves. Why had she wanted more?

She had heard every dire warning—every word of caution—every urging to take care, and she had thrown them all to the wind, going to the banquet anyway. She was not a fool—and she was not little anymore—and everyone around her was merely overreacting. Those were the things she'd told herself as she walked across that courtyard, defying her slave mistress's orders, her brother's wishes, and Erik's pleas of warning. The shah would never even know she was there. _He will know you by your eyes,_ her brother had said, but Yasmin had not had any intention of ever letting the shah get close enough to see her eyes.

Yet her intentions had come crashing down around her—like the fallen tray that led to her doom. Her brother had been arrested—taken—she knew not where. He'd sworn he would be fine, but Yasmin had not been fooled. She knew that prison! She knew the dungeon! And she knew, that if the shah were so inclined, her brother could meet a fate that was even worse than either. All because she did not listen.

"I am nothing but a child!" Yasmin muttered to herself in a hollow voice, as she continued to stare at her intertwined fingers. "A foolish, senseless, stupid, stupid child…"

A soft knock came at her door, as her voice trailed off in misery, but Yasmin paid it little mind, too immersed in sorrow to even care who might be coming to visit. Pushing the door slightly open, a woman entered quietly, the silken slippers on her feet making no sound as she moved slowly into the room. She was wearing a gossamer pantsuit the color of rich garnets that left her midriff bare, revealing her to be one of the shah's harem girls. Perhaps he was sending for her after all.

"Yasmin?" the woman said in a low, hushed voice.

"I do not want to go there!" Yasmin stammered, inching back into her chair, tucking her legs beneath her as fear suddenly gripped her heart. Her brother had warned her to protect herself and she owed it to him to at least try. "I do not want to be one of you!"

"One of…who?" the woman asked, perplexed, her eyes narrowing a bit as she regarded the strange young girl.

"One of his…" Yasmin stumbled on her words, "…his harem girls…his concubines…his personal slaves. I do not want that. I will _not_ be like you!"

"You will _not_ be like me," the woman said, her voice a soft, calm purr, even if her eyes appeared somewhat insulted. "For you, Yasmin, will be queen."

Yasmin's eyes widened in horror and disbelief at what the woman had just said. "What?" she breathed, feeling all at once as if the desert had taken up residence in her throat.

"The shah has made it known that he intends to take you as his bride," the woman informed her calmly. "He is making legal arrangements for the wedding, as we speak, and I have been sent by the harem mistress to prepare you for your…duties…on your wedding night."

"No…" Yasmin shuddered at the woman's revelation, which was even worse than anything she had imagined. "No…"

"Come now, Yasmin," the woman said with a smile that the younger girl could only assume was supposed to be comforting. "This time comes for every woman. Having me here to teach you and guide you in the ways of pleasuring your husband will make everything much easier. I spent several years as the shah's consort. I am well aware of his likes…"

"I don't want to know what he likes!" Yasmin whimpered. "And I am only a girl. Can he not see that? How he can want me in the way a man wants a woman?"

Pity passed across the mysterious woman's face for this young girl who was so dreadfully terrified of the fate that awaited her. "I could not possibly _explain_ his desires, dear," she commented. "All I know is how to fulfill them."

"Who _are_ you?" Yasmin asked, shaking her head, desperately trying to convince herself that none of this was real.

"My name," the woman said, with practiced calm, "is Faribah. And I was once the favored concubine of the shah."

" _You_ serve him?" Yasmin commented. "Why does he not make _you_ his queen?"

Faribah chuckled, "Yasmin, a harem girl can never be elevated to the status of queen. It is a matter of station—social class. And while I was once the concubine of the shah, I have not served him for quite a while now," she added, bitterness entering her voice.

"What happened?" Yasmin asked, genuinely curious now as to what could have caused the shah to lose interest in the beautiful woman that stood before her. If Yasmin knew her secret, perhaps she could try the same.

Snapping out of what seemed to be a painful memory, Faribah shook her head. "I should not speak ill of the man who will be your husband."

"Please, Faribah," Yasmin pleaded, bristling at the word husband. "I must know the type of man he is—if I am to live with him." Saying the words made her skin crawl, but she had to convince this woman to tell her what she knew.

Faribah regarded Yasmin quietly for another moment. At length, she gathered enough courage to begin her tale. "I was in the garden pool one afternoon, bathing," she finally admitted, a bit of discomfort in her voice, "when the shah called me out to…service him. He was not alone, but I did as he commanded, knowing that he did not always follow the rules of decorum. He took me, right there, beginning before his guest had even departed, but still _he_ accused _me_ of shaming _him._ He deemed that there was to be a public punishment—I was to be taken against my will in the dining hall!

"It was terrifying," she continued, her voice growing more and more frantic as she relived the horror of that moment. "There was nowhere for me to go—no way for me to escape—everywhere I turned, the crowd was cheering and taunting…laughing at my disgrace.

"Then from out of nowhere," Faribah continued, her gaze shifting from one of panic to one of awe, " _he_ appeared—my savior. He swooped down upon my attacker and snapped his neck right in front of me. I was saved the humiliation of public violation that night—at the hands of the man who would become the Angel of Death!"

"The Angel of Death?" Yasmin gasped, her attitude suddenly perking up. "Erik saved you?"

Faribah looked at the girl with narrowed eyes. "Erik?" she asked. "Who is Erik?"

"The Angel of Death," the girl replied, all trepidation that had formerly shone in her eyes gone and replaced with a glint of excitement. "That's his real name."

"And how would you know this?" Faribah asked, her eyebrow raised in a questioning expression.

"Because he is my friend. I have been taking care of him since his imprisonment. Well," the girl quickly amended her statement, a cloud of sadness returning to her eyes. "Until a few weeks ago, that is, when my duties were revoked."

"Yasmin," Faribah began, trying to be patient with this girl who was obviously confused, "I'm sorry, but you must be mistaken. The Angel of Death—the man who saved me—was executed over a year ago."

"No," Yasmin insisted, refusing to be corrected. "The shah made it _look_ like the Angel of Death was executed over a year ago. But Erik is alive."

"Well, where is he then?" Faribah questioned, folding her arms in front of her chest. "Surely, he would be recognized in the prison."

"He is in the dungeon," Yasmin informed her. "Hidden from the rest of the prisoners. No one except for the shah, the prison guards, and myself even know he's there."

"But why would the shah not just kill him?" Faribah asked, taking her turn at being confused. "Why pretend to execute him just to keep him alive?"

"To torture him by keep him away from his true love, Annie," Yasmin told her.

* * *

When the door to the dungeon opened, Erik fell back, hiding himself among the shadows.

"How are you settling in to your new home, nephew?" came a taunting voice dripping with slime that was so familiar to Erik. It had been over a year since he had come face to face with the shah, but he would know that voice anywhere from the way it turned his stomach and made the hairs on his body stand on end.

"Do not invoke your familial ties to me," Kaveh spat back through clenched teeth, glaring at the shah as he approached the cage, a smug smile on his face, a guard on either side. "Your nephew is dead— _you_ saw to that—and his son wants nothing to do with you."

"Well, now," the shah shook his head, clicking his tongue as if in sympathy. "That _is_ a shame. Especially since those family ties will be strengthened before long."

"What do you mean, pig?" Kaveh demanded, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"There is to be a wedding…" the shah informed him with a wide smile, opening his arms out wide to him, before addressing him as, " _brother_."

Kaveh launched himself at the bars of his cell, trying desperately to wrap his hands around the shah's miserable neck, but the man stood just far enough away to make that impossible. "You sick, disgusting, bastard!" he shouted. "She is your own flesh and blood!"

"Yes," the shah said, nodding proudly. "And that is why it is illegal to take her as a concubine. Her royal bloodline puts the harem beneath her station. However, marriage has been joining royal bloodlines for centuries. So by her advantageous birth, Yasmin will be transformed from whore to queen!"

"Advantageous birth?" Kaveh growled, in disbelief "How advantageous was her birth when you had our parents killed, and forced her to grow up an orphan among slaves?"

"Your parents died because they tried to incite rebellion against the throne," the shah said, dispassionately. "They had only themselves to blame."

"They died because they sought to free Persia from your poisonous clutches!" Kaveh sneered with derision.

"Well," the shah smiled wide once again, "isn't it ironic then that my union with their daughter will be just the thing that secures my hold on Persia once and for all? Who will my nephew's supporters look to for rebellion when his son is rotting away in prison and his daughter shares my bed?"

The bars rattled violently as Kaveh shook them once more. "Do not touch my sister!" he bellowed. "Don't you dare lay one finger on her!"

"Oh I plan to do more than that, nephew!" the shah said, laughing gleefully. "I shall plant my seed within her and she will bring forth my heir—thus uniting the factions and silencing your little uprising forever!"

"NO!" Kaveh screamed, his throat raw from the strain, as the shah turned away. "Leave my sister alone!" he pleaded as the shah made his way out of the door. "She is just a little girl," he shouted but there was no one left to hear him.

"Oh Yasmin," Kaveh sobbed, leaning his head against the bars as he slid to his knees. "No….no."

Silently, Erik slipped out from the shadows. He had listened to the shah's hateful plan, heard Kaveh's desperate pleas. His blood boiled with hatred for the loathsome vermin who had just left the room. His heart was sick for the innocent little girl who, through little fault of her own, was caught up in his revolting obsession. But he also felt great sympathy for the man who was kneeling against the bars—his world having been torn out from under him. He was broken—he was grieving. Erik knew just how that felt.

"Kaveh," he said quietly as he reached out tentatively to lay a reassuring hand on the broken man's shoulder.

At the slightest pressure of Erik's fingertips, Kaveh rounded on him and landed a hard blow square on Erik's jaw. "This is your fault!" he bellowed, knocking Erik off balance, sending the taller man hurtling to the floor. "You monster!" he spat, falling to the ground to wind up for another shot, "You fiend! You beast!"

Just as Kaveh was about to make contact a second time, Erik shot his hands up to catch his arm. "Kaveh, stop," he demanded, trying to hold off the struggling guard.

"Why should I?" Kaveh questioned, using all his strength to try to free himself so that he could come at Erik again.

"Because I am not your enemy," Erik swore through clenched teeth, finding that he had to put forth great effort to hold the Persian man back.

"The hell you aren't, _Angel_!" Kaveh spat, pulling out of Erik's hold and to drag himself to his feet. "You are an enemy of every freedom loving man in Persia! That atrocity…that _abomination_ you built for the shah—did you ever stop to think who it was being used on?"

"Criminals, he told me," Erik panted, as he sat up slowly, hanging on Kaveh's every word. "Murderers. Rapists. The most heinous of the lot."

"And did any of them _look_ like hardened criminals to you?" Kaveh questioned, looming over Erik as the stunned man struggled for an answer.

"Looks can be deceiving…"

"Political prisoners!" Kaveh interjected, not allowing Erik the chance to rationalize. "Mostly men who had been loyal to my father—before the shah had him killed—who were sick to death of the shah's tyrannical rule. They had begun speaking up again, against the shah—starting to make their voices heard against the man's overbearing cruelty. Spurred on by the fact that I had finally come into adulthood, they began to quietly clamor for revolution.

"Surely those men would never have let _this_ stand—this repugnant scheme to marry my sister. Undoubtedly they would have gone to her aid. Until, of course, your abhorrent creation silenced them forever. Time after time, you took the last breath from the voices of freedom—until now even the ones who survive speak no more for fear of being thrown into your torture chamber. Even after your supposed death, _Angel_ , your depraved device of torment still lives on—squeezing the lives out of the shah's challengers, doling the death blow for freedom."

Erik stared at the impassioned man in front of him, absolutely aghast at what he was hearing. Had his torture chamber truly helped stamp out a rebellion? Had his actions aided the shah—a man whom Erik abhorred with all his being—in bolstering his power, and strengthening the stranglehold he had on Persia? He could not blame Kaveh for hating him if that were the case. In truth, he hated himself for any benefit he gave to that man.

"Kaveh," Erik said quietly, not quite able to bring himself to look the man in the eye, "I am truly sorry for the part I played in silencing the detractors of the shah. I…I was not in my right mind." _Or was it your right mind, Erik?_ that voice rang out once again in his brain—the voice which returned every time that Erik needed a reminder that he was the Devil's Son. _The shah may have drugged you, but did the drugs truly make you do things that were not already in your nature? You know you were already a murderer before you came to Persia…Once you've killed one man, what are a few—dozen—more?_

Erik shook his head to clear it of that voice which never failed to condemn. It was not time to bemoan the sins for which he could never atone. Yasmin needed help, and they would need to work together to save her.

"You may not believe," Erik forced himself to look in Kaveh's grief stricken eyes, "that I am not your enemy, but your sister did. And isn't she who truly matters right now?"

"Of course, she's the one who matters!" Kaveh moaned, raking his fingers through his hair in desperation.

"Then we need to work together, Kaveh," Erik insisted. "We need to think! We need to come up with a way for all three of us to get out of here!"

 **AN: Oh, the shah is truly revolting. But hey-Faribah's back, and Erik and Kaveh are going to work together. How, we don't quite know yet-but they will. And if they work together, they will be unstoppable! If the dungeon doesn't get in their way...**


	70. Chapter 70

CH 70

Giles Giry was doing his best to wear a hole into the ornate rug lying on his parlor floor—or at least that was what Madame Delacroix had told him. Back and forth, back and forth he'd paced for hours, worrying his golden curls into an unruly haystack that shot out in all directions, and still there had been no news. An eternity had passed since the midwife had shooed Giles out of his own bedroom, allowing only Giselle to stay, because, as she put it, "birthing babies is women's work." Being away from Antoinette while he knew she was enduring great pains to bring forth their child was driving him insane. He would give anything for just one word on her progress.

"Good heavens! What is taking her so long?" Claude Moncharmin whined, from the leather chair in which he had been sitting, taking a handkerchief out of his breast pocket to wipe tiny beads of sweat off his brow. "I simply don't think my nerves can take much more waiting! It is not good for my delicate constitution. I think I'll just go upstairs and tell the midwife she needs to hurry things along a bit." And with a huff, the impatient manager rose from his chair and headed for the stairs.

Giles paused in his tracks and turned to give Moncharmin an incredulous glare, his mouth opening to tell the man exactly what he thought of his _constitution_ , when a loud crack turned both their heads toward Madame, who had just stomped her heel on the hardwood floor.

"Sit. Down. Monsieur." they heard Madame Delacroix demand in an unwavering tone, making it clear that if Moncharmin did not heed her orders, his punishment would be swift and merciless. Looking rather like a scolded puppy, Moncharmin hastily returned to his chair and resumed sulking.

After directing a withering scowl in the chastised manager's direction, Madame turned her attention to Giles.

"Monsieur Giry," she began gently, "I understand the difficulty you are suffering while you wait for word on Antoinette's condition. But childbirth is slow work, and you are doing no one any good, pacing around and worrying yourself like this. You will be exhausted by the time your baby comes, and then what help will you be to your wife and child?"

"Well, what would you expect me to do, Madame?" Giles asked her, desperate to hear any ideas she might have that would alleviate the restlessness that was coursing through his veins.

"Practice, Monsieur," she said with a smile, directing her arm toward young Alain, who was playing quietly in front of the hearth with some small toys Giselle had brought from home.

Giles gave the wise ballet mistress a nervous glance and slowly approached the boy. Sitting down tentatively on the floor next to him, he muttered, "Alain? Can I play with you?"

The strawberry blond haired boy looked up and immediately started giggling, waving the toy giraffe in his hand excitedly and showing off his ever expanding language skills by spitting out the word "Unka!"

Easily disarmed by the young boy's charm, Giles could not help but chuckle along with him, eagerly taking the giraffe that the boy handed him…and the horse…and the chicken, and placing them with their mates in the large wooden boat. Madame Delacroix watched as Giles settled in to playing with Alain, and thought once again that her old friend Clarice would be so happy for her daughter and her growing family. Giles Giry was going to be as wonderful a father as he had been a husband. Antoinette was truly a lucky woman.

Just as the afternoon was drawing into evening, a loud, agonized shout was heard from upstairs. Giles looked up from where he had been playing with Alain, worry and fear painted across his face. The whole room froze in silence, until, a few moments later, the shout was followed by a lusty cry, and Giles knew his baby had been born.

His eyes closed in relief and a grateful smile broke over his face. A moment later the bedroom door creaked open, and delicate footsteps could be heard running to the top of the stairs.

Giselle appeared at the railing, her long red hair hanging in strings, her face looking exhausted, but happy. "It's a girl!" she called to the gathering in the parlor, "A beautiful, healthy baby girl!"

"Marguerite," Giles whispered to himself, amid the cheers and congratulations of his colleagues, as tears began to form in his eyes.

* * *

It had been a long and difficult labor. The pains had started late the night before as general discomfort in her back and abdomen. Giles had asked her if she wanted him to fetch the midwife, but she had desired nothing more than just to rest. So they had retired to bed, where Annie laid on her left side and Giles rubbed her back comfortingly until she fell asleep. It was a restless night, but she had not truly woken until early the next morning, when the cramping had become steady and more distinct. Still she had not yet allowed Giles to get the midwife, preferring, instead, that he hold her close to help her get through the pain, but they sent word to the opera house, and Giselle that the baby was on its way.

When Annie's waters finally broke, she knew they could delay no longer. Giles sent one of the servants to fetch the midwife, not wanting to leave her side in her condition. Giselle had arrived soon after, with little Alain in tow, and she set about trying to help Annie with her breathing while Giles sat next to her, on the bed, holding her hand, kissing it every so often and telling her how much he loved her. When the midwife arrived and sent Giles out of the room, Annie was sorry to see him go. He had been keeping her calm in the midst of physical agony, and she cherished his comfort, but the older woman had insisted that husbands did not belong in delivery rooms. So she reluctantly bade him farewell and prepared herself to greet her child.

For hours the contractions coursed through her, alternating between her abdomen and her back. It got to the point where one contraction would begin before the first one had quite ended, and Annie was not sure she would be strong enough to see this through. When at last the midwife declared her ready, and commanded her to push, Annie was certain the older woman was completely out of her mind. She barely had the energy required to breathe! How was she going to push?

"For your baby, Antoinette," Giselle said wiping sweat tangled hair away from her friend's forehead, with a knowing glance that told Annie she spoke from experience. "You can do it for your baby."

And somehow Annie found a way.

After what seemed like hours of exertion—the likes of which Annie had never imagined—with one final push she heard the delightful sounds of a baby's cry. Annie thought that she had never heard a sweeter sound as long as she lived, and when Giselle squeezed her hand and told her it was a girl, she felt tears prick her eyes. "Marguerite," she sighed, as the midwife finished cleaning her and she ached with impatience to hold her daughter.

The blessed moment finally came that they placed her baby in her arms and left the room, giving her a moment alone. Antoinette gazed down at her little miracle in awe. She was surely tinier than it was truly possible for a baby to be, with curled little fingers that clutched at the air, just waiting for something to fill their grasp. Her head was sprinkled with wispy curls, still wet from birth, but Annie knew that they would dry a shining, sparkling gold. Rosebud lips rooted around hungrily, looking for nourishment, and when Annie brought her daughter to her breast, the truest pair of blue eyes gazed up at her, as a tiny mouth latched on and began to feed.

She was perfect. She was amazing—and more than Annie had ever imagined. But as she gazed upon her daughter drinking hungrily at her breast, an image appeared in her mind of a mischievous little boy with curly black hair running after seagulls, laughing gleefully into the salty breeze. The child she'd always imagined in her mind—the child she had once dreamed she would share with Erik.

 _We never had this, my angel,_ she thought as tears of joy and melancholy streamed down her face. _We could have been so happy._ The boy in her imagination turned to flash her a toothless smile, but as her daughter reached forward with her tiny, tiny fingers, and kneaded at her breast, Annie saw his image begin to fade away. He was nothing more than a dream, a ghost…a phantom of her past. Annie gazed in adoration at the little wonder in her arms. _This_ was real. This was happiness. This was…love.

The door pushed open softly, and Giles peeked his head inside. "Antoinette?" he whispered, not wishing to disturb her if she had fallen asleep.

"Giles!" she called, tears of joy once again beginning to fall. She was so happy to see her husband! "Come meet your daughter."

A wide smile illuminating his entire face, he hurried over to their bed bending to place a firm kiss on Annie's forehead. "Are you alright, Antoinette? Was it awful?" he asked with concern, placing his hand on her cheek.

"I am fine," Annie answered with a giggle. "And it was wonderful, because at the end, we have _her_ ," she exclaimed, gesturing to their daughter, whose little eyes had closed, as she continued to suck contentedly.

With a little gasp, Giles gazed at his daughter. "She's amazing," he said, shaking his head in awe. "So little! So lovely. So much like her mother."

Annie let out an exhausted laugh. "This baby is all you, Giles Giry—from her golden curls to her peachy skin, and her bright blue eyes! She is nothing like me!"

"She is beautiful, and she is perfect, and she takes my breath away," Giles told Annie, looking directly in her eyes. "I already feel as if I would do anything to make her happy, and I know I would die to protect her. I love her with all of my heart. In those ways, she is _just_ like her mother."

With a sniff, Annie murmured, "Oh, Giles," and tilted her head up toward his for a kiss.

When the baby had sleepily let go of Annie's breast, Giles could no longer contain his excitement. He leaned over his wife and lifted his daughter gently and carefully into his arms. Standing once again and cradling her close, he placed a loving kiss on the top of her head.

"I guess you were right all along, Giles," Annie said, smiling at the tender moment between father and child. "You always knew she was going to be a girl."

"I just had a feeling," Giles answered, never lifting his gaze from his sleeping daughter, "that I would soon be holding a perfectly sweet little flower in my arms. And here she is! Our beautiful Marguerite!"

"Marguerite is such a long name for such a little girl," Annie commented, beaming at the joy she saw in her husband's face. "Don't you think? Perhaps we should give her a nickname. Like Maggie or Margie or…"

"Meg," Giles said. "We shall call our daughter Meg. And she will be the light of our lives."

Annie gazed upon Giles and Meg, and she knew that he was right. And when her tired eyelids finally closed to grant her a few well-earned hours of slumber, her dreams were of a little girl in a well flowered field, giggling as her father spun her in the air, both of their golden heads gleaming in the sunlight.

* * *

"And how do you suppose the three of us are going to manage to get out of here?" Kaveh demanded of Erik, hands on his hips, nostrils flared. "This is the shah's _dungeon_ —the hole where he throws the prisoners that he never wishes to see again! You have been here for over a year, and even with my sister's help, you haven't managed to find a way out."

"I was never truly motivated to get out before," Erik told him, as he pulled himself to his feet. "I was, as you say, a monster—a beast. I am well aware of my own misdeeds—drugged out of my mind or not—and I know that wherever I go, they will follow me. I had no life outside these walls. Why should I have run?"

"Well, it's not as if any of that has changed. You're still a murderer—a criminal." Kaveh reminded him in exasperation.

"Yasmin needs our help" Erik said, through clenched teeth, forcing himself to ignore the guard's self-righteous accusations—for now. "We must find a way to save her from the clutches of the shah."

" _I_ will find a way to save my sister, _Angel_ ," Kaveh sneered at the former executioner, pointing to his own chest for emphasis. "I may no longer be a member of the palace guard, but that does not mean I would set _you_ free from this fate that you rightfully deserve."

"Do you actually think I would trust you to keep your sister safe?" Erik asked with a disgusted look. "The guard who brought a dagger to a swordfight?"

"How much better did you do," Kaveh retorted, with raised eyebrows, "forbidding her to go to the banquet as she waved you goodbye from the other side of the bars?"

"If I were with her," Erik said, folding his arms across the front of his chest, "I never would have let her be captured!"

"Oh?" Kaveh asked, advancing a few steps closer to the infuriating foreigner. "What would you have done with six guards surrounding you? Asked them each to wait their turn while you went around the circle, and one by one, wrung their necks?"

"Did they not teach you to fight when training to be a guard?" Erik asked disdainfully, looking down his nose at the slightly shorter man.

"I laid you out pretty effectively, didn't I?" Kaveh answered, jutting his chin upward as his hands curled into fists at his side.

"I promise you, it will never happen again, Persian!" Erik sneered.

"I would not bet on that, Frenchman!" Kaveh spat, grunting as he pushed forward in an effort to shove Erik to the ground.

"By Allah!" They heard the breathless voice behind them, "It _is_ you!"

The men halted their argument at the sound of the voice, and whirled around to see the shah's former concubine, Faribah, standing at the doorway, her mouth agape, lantern hanging from her outstretched hand.

"Do you live?" she asked, her voice still whispery with shock. "Or do I gaze upon a ghost?"

"I…" Erik began awkwardly, finding it difficult to look her in the eyes, vivid memories of

their last meeting suddenly assaulting his memory. "I am no ghost."

"But you _died_ ," she insisted. "They led you into the torture chamber. I saw it myself!"

"It…" he said, still looking down, "it was some other poor soul who died in my stead. I have been here…in this prison cell…for well over a year." When Faribah just stared at him, shaking her head in disbelief, he asked, "How is it that _you_ are here?"

"I was told you were here by our future queen, when I was sent to prepare her for her wedding night."

The low growl that issued from Kaveh's throat snapped Faribah out of her shock. Turning her head to look at him, she lifted a finger and said, "And you…you are one of the shah's guards…"

"Correction, good lady," Kaveh snapped. "I _was_ one of the shah's guards!"

"What are you doing here?" she asked in confusion. "In the dungeon?"

"I am the brother of the _little girl_ the shah plans to make his future queen," he told her sharply "—and he did not take kindly to my objections to the wedding. And since we're all asking questions here," he continued, glancing over at Erik, who was still studying the dirt beneath his feet, "how is it that you two know each other?"

When Erik made no answer, Faribah looked straight in Kaveh's eyes and said, "I was once sent to Erik, too."

Kaveh's mouth fell open and he looked over to his cellmate, to see his usually wan skin blushing red in mortification. "Well, isn't _that_ an interesting coincidence!" the guard muttered.

"One that is of no consequence to you, Kaveh!" Erik snarled, snapping out of his embarrassment, and forcing himself to address the harem girl. "How _is_ Yasmin, Faribah? Has he hurt her?"

"She is frightened," Faribah admitted, "but unharmed. She is being kept in the tower bed chamber—surrounded by every luxury she could possibly imagine."

"Except her freedom!" Kaveh interjected.

"Faribah," Erik implored her, curling his hands around the bars, "I know I have no right to ask this of you, after I shamed you the way I did." Erik paused for a moment when the harem girl's eyes fell toward the floor, her lashes shielding her embarrassment from his eyes. "But we need you to help us rescue Yasmin. She does not deserve to be forced into marrying that sordid man. Please, help us get out of here. For _her_ sake."

"You ask much of me, Angel," she said, looking up once again to meet his eyes. "You are asking me to put my life on the line to openly disobey the shah. You know how swift his punishment is."

"Yes," Erik nodded, "And he was punishing you for doing _nothing_ wrong—just as he is doing to Yasmin. Forcing her to become his wife and bear his child will be torture for her, and we both know it. She is too young. Please, Faribah, I will do everything in my power to see to your safety, if you just help me to save her…"

"As you once saved me," Faribah finished his sentence, knowing that every word he spoke was right. The shah's plan to wed Yasmin was, in fact, wicked and perverse—and had he not the power to rewrite the laws to suit him, it would never be allowed to happen. This man standing before her had risked his life for her sake, when she had been nothing to him. Her previous efforts to repay him had not been met well, but if this was what he required of her for fulfillment of a debt, then how could she say no?

"I will see what I can do, Angel," she nodded.

"Faribah," Erik said, as she turned to go, causing her to turn back and look in his direction. "You may call me Erik," he told her. "For I am no angel."

 **AN: Awwww...baby Meg is here! Giles and Annie have their little Daisy! And it looks like Erik and Kaveh have an Ally in their attempt to save Yasmin. But will it work?**


	71. Chapter 71

CH 71

Erik lay on his back on the dirt floor, hands behind his head, staring up into the darkness as he listened to his cellmate pace back and forth. Though it had been several weeks, captivity was still new to Kaveh, and he was not taking it very well.

"How much longer," he growled, pausing suddenly in his path and shaking the bars in front of him, "are we going to be stuck in this accursed place?"

"Do you really think," Erik asked, calmly, "that pacing, and sputtering is going to make her come back faster?"  
"I know it is of little importance to you, _Angel_ ," Kaveh snarled, stalking over to where Erik lay, to air his frustrations. "But my sister is in the clutches of that wicked, evil despot, and the longer we wait for your little harem friend to come help us, the closer Yasmin gets to forcibly marrying that scoundrel."

"It is of great importance to me, _Guard_ ," Erik began, using Kaveh's former occupation to reference him, "because your sister is my _friend_. I do not want her in the grasp of the shah any more than you do."

"Then how can you remain so calm?" he asked, gesturing his hand toward Erik.

"Faribah is arranging the details of our escape," Erik explained. Again. "She is collecting money and supplies, and gathering information about passage out of Persia. Can you not understand that it takes time to lay the groundwork for a plan?"

"But what exactly _is_ the plan?" Kaveh snapped, in irritation.

"I don't know…" Erik admitted calmly.

"How is she going to break us out of here?" Kaveh pressed.

"I don't know," Erik repeated.

"And _if_ she manages to get us out of here," Kaveh continued, raising a finger for emphasis even though Erik couldn't see him, "—and I am not convinced that she will—how are we going to get to safety?"

"I don't know," Erik said for the third time.

"Well, what _do_ you know?" Kaveh asked in exasperation.

"I know how to silence annoying Persians," Erik retorted, making a sound with his mouth that sounded distinctly like a neck being snapped.

Kaveh huffed in return, shooting Erik a deadly glare that was mercifully hidden by the darkness, and ran his fingers through his hair once more. Leaning his back against the cold, stone wall, he slid to the ground, pulling his legs up to his chest to rest his elbows on his knees. "We don't have much time, Erik," he said, all trace of ire gone from his voice, replaced, instead by concern. "Did you know that today is Yasmin's birthday?"

Erik's eyebrows rose in interest, as he used his palms to push himself into a sitting position. "No," he answered, turning in the direction of Kaveh's voice, "I did not."

Kaveh nodded, looking down. "She is turning fourteen." Taking a shuddering breath, he shook his head. "I can hardly believe it. I remember when she was born—impossibly tiny and fragile. I was a boy of eight at the time, and my father made me swear to always defend her. He said it was the duty of an older brother to make certain his sister was safe and protected." Releasing a mirthless chuckle, he buried his head in his hands before adding, "What a good job I'm doing of it too."

Erik heard the man's heavy sigh and knew the despair he must be feeling right now. He recalled that night, so long ago, when the gypsy master struck his Annie, sending her hurtling across the floor. Every cell in his body had screamed to defend her—to take the blow in her stead—to pull her to safety. But he had been prevented from helping her by the cage that held him captive—just as Kaveh was now kept from saving Yasmin by cold iron bars.

"Kaveh…" Erik began, not knowing exactly what he was going to say, but wanting to offer some comfort to the man.

The soft scrape of wood against stone halted his words, and they both looked toward the yellow glow near the front of the cell.

"Faribah!" Erik called, pulling himself to his feet to greet her.

Kaveh, however, beat him to the bars. Curling his fingers around the cold, metal rods, he demanded, "What news of my sister? When do we escape?"

"Good evening to you as well," Faribah retorted, smiling tightly at Kaveh. "I am fine, thank you for asking."

"There is no time to waste with meaningless prattle!" Kaveh spat with disgust. "Answer me!"

"Your sister is the same as last we spoke. Unharmed, but alone and afraid. I am the only company she is allowed, as I am supposed to be teaching her the finer points of being with a man," she continued, earning a groan from the erstwhile guard, "—but she does not trust _me_ , because of _your_ admonition that I tell her nothing of our plan."

"We cannot count on Yasmin to remain quiet," Erik explained on Kaveh's behalf. "She has a tendency to say and do things without thinking."

"She wouldn't still be alone and afraid if you would hurry up and do what you need to do to get us out of here!" Kaveh snapped, his already tenuous patience reaching its end.

Erik pinched the bridge of his nose and added, "Apparently, rashness when speaking is a family trait."

"I have been busily preparing your escape, _for your information_ ," Faribah snapped, her glare focused entirely on Kaveh. "It is not easy to gather supplies for the journey undetected, and I have had to fit my efforts into the short amounts of time I am permitted out from the harem to instruct your sister—as you well know!" When the chastened guard said nothing in return, Faribah continued, "But you are correct that we must leave soon." Looking from Kaveh to Erik and back again, she added, "The shah's new law, lowering the minimum legal age for marriage, will be going into effect in two weeks. The wedding date has been set for the following day."

"Oh, Yasmin!" Kaveh choked, covering his face with his hand.

"What do you suggest, Faribah?" Erik asked, trying to remain cool and collected, as he too felt his heart begin to race.

"Our best chance for getting out of Persia will be when the guests start arriving for the wedding," she said in a low voice. "There will be much greater ship traffic in the harbor than usual—if we wait until then, we should be able to blend in with the crowds, sneak aboard one of the vessels, and hide ourselves away without being seen."

"Greater traffic means more guards," Erik responded.

"Yes," Faribah nodded, "But also greater opportunity to blend in with the crowd." A wry smirk coming over her face, she added, "And don't you worry, Erik. I know how to handle guards. My feminine wiles do work on _most_ men."

Erik's face reddened at her comment, remembering well the time she tried to use her feminine attributes on him—and nearly succeeded.

Kaveh shook his head as he watched the exchange between Erik and Faribah with a sneer of disgust. The idea of a woman of Faribah's great beauty having bedded the Angel of Death sickened him. However, at the moment, Kaveh cared not for either of their romantic entanglements. "Do you really think," Kaveh questioned skeptically, "that four stowaways are going to be able to hide on a ship undetected? Especially with it being known that the 'future queen' has escaped? Or that she had been kidnapped? They would search every ship in the harbor—nothing larger than a grain of sand would go undetected. How are _we_ supposed to make it out of Persia alive?"

"We will survive, Kaveh," Erik said with a cryptic certainty, before Faribah was able to respond.

"And how do you know that, Erik?" Kaveh asked, still not believing that this plan would work.

"Because it is far past time for me to go home," Erik said, resolutely. "And there is nothing that is going to stand in my way."

Any more questions Kaveh had about the validity of the plan died on his lips when he saw the determination glowing in Erik's strange golden eyes. Swallowing hard as a chill ran down his spine, he turned to Faribah and asked, "Will you be able to get the key from the guard—to get us out of here?"

A confident smile crossing her lips, she answered, "Do not worry. I have already been working on the guards. I am _certain_ an opportunity will _arise_."

Kaveh's throat ran dry at her words, and his face felt flush as Faribah's intended methods of handling the guards became apparent. Choking a bit as he cleared his throat, he stamped down the hint of envy that rose within him, saying "Thank you, for your assistance."

A grin brightened Faribah's features as she murmured, "Of course." And with a final nod to Erik, she turned and left the room.

* * *

Annie stood at the foot of Meg's crib, just watching her sleep. It had been about three months since her daughter had been born, and she could hardly believe how quickly the time had flown. Meg had brought with her a whirlwind of activity, with the constant feedings, the soiled diapers, and the many sleepless nights. Annie was exhausted!

But she was happy. As her daughter's whole body rose and fell with a heavy breath, Annie could not imagine a more beautiful sight than the little golden angel who lay sleeping before her. She had grown so much since the day of her birth, but still she was the spitting image of her father—all joy, all sunshine.

Giles had resumed his duties at the opera house shortly after Meg's arrival, leaving Annie to care for their daughter. With Giselle and Alain often spending the day to keep her company, she was rarely alone, but Annie still missed her husband, and couldn't wait for his return. When Giles would come home at the end of the workday, he was usually bearing gifts of some sort—often a toy or stuffed doll for Meg, and a large bouquet of daisies for Antoinette. His boyish charm never failed to make her smile, and, it was with great joy that they had resumed their marital relations after Dr. Janvier had given Annie a clean bill of health.

 _"_ _Every time I think you have made me the happiest man in the world," Giles had whispered to her the night before, while stroking her cheek after he had joined them, "you find a way to make me happier."_

 _"_ _Then let that be our life," Annie exclaimed, smiling as she ran her hands up and down his back. "Happiness, and laughter, and joy," she said, tangling her fingers in his curls as she leaned her head up to capture his mouth in a firm kiss. "So much joy."_

 _"_ _Mmmmmm," Giles chuckled against her lips, as he began to move within her, "that sounds like a wonderful life indeed."_

Annie was still remembering the delights of the previous night when her husband walked up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her out of her daydream. "Antoinette," Annie heard, as he leaned down to place tender kisses on the nape of her neck. "I thought I'd find you here."

"Mmmmmm," Annie sighed, closing her eyes as she felt his comforting warmth wrap around her. "Good morning Giles."

"Well, it was," he returned, pulling her more tightly against him, "until I woke up and you were not in our bed."

"Meg needed her early feeding," Annie told him. "And then I couldn't resist just watching her for a while. She's so beautiful and perfect."

"Just like her mother," Giles murmured low in Annie's ear.

Feeling a little thrill creep up her spine, Annie responded, " _And_ her father."

Turning her to face him so that he could kiss her deeply, Giles lifted her in his arms, holding her as he had on their wedding night, when he'd carried her over the threshold. "I have a little while before I need to be at the opera house, and the servants have not yet arrived for the day," he told her, huskily. "Come back to bed with me, dear wife."

"Gladly, my husband," Annie happily agreed, winding her arms around his neck.

Their lips entwined, they had just entered their bedroom when they heard a loud knock on the front door. Groaning, Giles laid Annie down on the bed and moved over to the window. Pushing the curtains aside, he glanced down to see the formidable figure of the ballet mistress standing at their door, her hand poised for another knock. "Madame Delacroix," Giles sighed, looking back longingly at his wife. "Do you think we could just not answer?"

"She knows we're here, Giles," Annie giggled in response. "Would you care to explain to Madame why we _didn't_ answer when you get to the opera house later today?"

Knowing his wife was right, he huffed and pulled on his heavy robe, stating, "I am not exactly in any condition for outside visitors!"

Annie snickered as she too got out of bed and tightened her robe. "You'll be fine in a few minutes, darling!" she told him as they made their way downstairs, Annie being sure to open the door, to allow Giles a few extra moments to compose himself.

"Madame Delacroix," Annie said as she greeted her guest with a smile. "What a pleasant surprise!"

"You are very kind, Antoinette," said the gruff woman, "but I am not certain your husband appreciates me getting you out of bed this early in the morning."

"Well, actually…" Giles began before Annie silenced him by clearing her throat.

"Don't be silly, Madame," Annie said, gesturing for her to come in. "Our daughter makes certain that we do not sleep much!"

"Yes," Madame said walking past Annie into the parlor, "as well as Monsieur Giry's best efforts to give your child a sibling, I'm sure." When Annie and Giles both froze and stared at her, the older woman laughed and squeezed Annie's hand, saying, "Remember, dear, Monsieur Delacroix and I were young at one point. It's only natural."

When Annie noticed Giles go slightly green at the mention of Madame Delacroix's love life, Annie stepped in to say, "Please, Madame, sit down." With a smile, she asked, "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Oh, no thank you, dear," she answered. "I don't wish to stay long. I simply have a matter I would like to discuss with the two of you."

"All right," Annie said, curious to see what the ballet mistress had to say. She took her seat on the little settee, patting the cushion next to her so that Giles could join her.

Once Madame had arranged herself comfortably in the overstuffed chair, she looked from Antoinette to Giles. Taking a deep breath, she smiled and informed them, "The time has come for me to retire."

"Retire?" Giles asked, shocked by the news. It was true that Madame Delacroix was well within retirement age, but she was hearty and hale, and he simply could not imagine the corps du ballet without the ever present crack of her cane…

"Madame!" Annie exclaimed, suffering from the same disbelief that was currently striking her husband. "How could you retire? What would the opera house do without you?"

"Well, Antoinette," Madame turned and looked at her with a smile, "I was hoping you would take over for me."

"Me?" Annie gasped, her hand going to her breast. "Madame I couldn't…"

"I believe you could, Antoinette," the senior ballet mistress insisted. "You have a natural ability when it comes to dance. It was born into you—your mother's legacy, no doubt. You pick up anything with ease—and I have seen you lead the other girls who need a little extra help. You would be the perfect choice, Antoinette—that is, of course, if you didn't plan to go back to dancing."

"Well, I…" Annie began, stammering through her words as she tried to formulate an answer to Madame's question. She had not had any plans to return to the opera house after Meg's birth, but that was not to say that she didn't miss it. She loved the dance—as Madame had said, it was in her blood—but she'd never felt she truly _needed_ a stage to do it. Besides, her life now had to revolve around her daughter. "…I have Meg now."

"So bring her with you!" Madame insisted. "You want your daughter to learn to dance, don't you?"

"She has to learn to walk first," Annie blurted.

"Every little bit of exposure helps," Madame stood firm. "If you want her to be a natural like you, you've got to start her young."

"I just…I don't know…" Annie said, still taken aback by the idea that she could assume the reins that belonged to Madame Delacroix and become the new ballet mistress.

"Monsieur Giry," Madame turned to Giles, hoping to gain an ally in her argument, "you have been surprisingly silent on the matter at hand. What are your thoughts?"

Giles looked at Annie, who still had a dumbfounded expression on her face. "I believe, Madame," he began, reaching behind Annie to place a reassuring hand on her back, "that my wife needs some time to consider this situation. Whatever she decides," he added, "I will support her."

With an understanding nod, Madame Delacroix rose from her seat, saying, "Very well. I plan on telling The Messieurs Moncharmin and Richard of my decision this afternoon—just so that you are aware, Monsieur Giry."

"Thank you for the advance notice, Madame," Giles nodded, rising to walk her to the door.

Once he had seen Madame off, Giles returned to the settee, sitting down once more beside his wife who still had a far off look on her face.

"What are you thinking, darling?" he asked, taking her hands in his.

"I think," Annie stated, looking down at her hands that were now encased in her husband's, "that Madame Delacroix's opinion of me is perhaps a bit too high."

"Now why would you say that?" Giles asked, shaking his head.

"How could I take on her duties as ballet mistress, Giles? I am too young— I never had formal training—just what I learned from my mother. I have not even been dancing with the corps for very long, compared to the other girls…"

"And yet," Giles said gently, "Madame Delacroix sees something in you that she doesn't see in the others."

"But I don't understand what that is…" Annie shook her head.

"It's _you_ , my love," Giles told her with a sweet chuckle. "It's your fire—your spirit. It is the same thing that made me love you—that makes me love you still."

"The girls _hated_ me when I started!" Annie protested.

"That was mostly Mademoiselle Sorelli's influence," Giles reminded her. "You cannot tell me that the others have not warmed up to you since she has been gone."

"They have…" Annie admitted reluctantly.

"You have talent, Antoinette. All the girls see that. I think you would be a wonderful replacement for Madame Delacroix."

"But… _Meg_ …" Annie argued.

"We could find a way to make it all work," Giles promised her. "That is…" he squeezed her hand, looking encouragingly into her eyes, "if it is what _you_ want. _You_ need to make the choice."

Annie stared at the man before her, at an absolute loss as to what to say. What _was_ it that she wanted? What choice would she make?

When she had come to the opera house, to audition for the Corps du Ballet, she had not had to decide what it was that she had wanted. Erik had insisted ballet was what she had been born to do—it was her legacy—a gift from her mother. She belonged on the Paris stage—and his insistence had been gratified when the managers had agreed.

Madame Delacroix had not been asking her what she wanted either. She had made her announcement this morning, insisting that Annie was a natural—almost implying that it was her duty to take on the responsibilities she would be leaving when she retired.

But here was Giles, her _husband_ —the one person in the world who was _in_ a position of authority over her—who by the legal rights conveyed to him by their marriage, was _permitted_ to tell her what she could and couldn't do—and he was giving _her_ the choice. More than anyone, _he_ would affected by her decision, both at home _and_ at work, and he was encouraging her to do what _she_ wanted—and he only promised his love and support, either way.

A wry smile raising the corner of her mouth, Annie asked Giles, "Are you ready to be living with the Dragon Lady?"

"Well," he responded, moving a bit closer to her on the settee, wrapping his arms tightly around her, "you already leave me rather hot under the collar."

"Is that right, Monsieur Giry?" she asked, lifting a flirtatious eyebrow.

"Indeed, Madame Giry," he nodded, as he drew nearer to her lips.

"And when you wish to get your way, Monsieur Giry," she chuckled, rubbing noses with him, "are you prepared to give me anything I want?"

"Oh, yes, _mistress_ ," he murmured, nuzzling her neck.

"Absolutely anything?" she asked again, letting her head roll back to give him better access to her neck.

" _Anything_ …" he whispered, his lips replacing the fabric of the robe he had just pushed off her shoulder.

"Good," she sighed, tangling her fingers in his curls and pressing him closely to her chest.

An ill-timed cry from their daughter halted Giles's amorous attempts for the second time that day, and he groaned loudly as Annie pushed gently on his chest with a giggle, saying, "I'm sorry, darling, but _my_ mistress awaits…"

* * *

"Good evening, my sweet!" the shah exclaimed, as Yasmin turned away from the window to see her captor walking into her room. Trembling, she lowered her eyes, not wishing to look upon the man who was depriving her from freedom.

"No words of greeting for your future husband, Yasmin?" the shah asked when she stood there and said nothing.

"I…I wouldn't know what to say…s…s…sire," she stammered, still refusing to glance up.

"Well," he said as he stood right in front of her, tipping up her chin roughly so that she had to look at him. "Perhaps you should say thank you. I did bring you a gift, after all…"

"A _gift_?" she asked, in confusion. "W…w…why?"

"Well, it's your birthday, of course," he said, with a sickly smile that made Yasmin regret consuming the meager bits of lunch she had eaten off her tray that afternoon.

"My birthday…" she repeated, the idea of celebrating the farthest thing from her mind.

"Yes," said the shah. "Now, close your eyes."

Feeling her throat go dry, Yasmin did what was asked of her. A second later, she felt something cool close around her neck, a heavy weight hanging down against her chest, as the shah reached behind her to fasten the clasp of some sort of necklace. "Beautiful," he murmured against her ear, and Yasmin had to stifle a gag as his hot, fetid breath filled her nostrils, and his clammy fingers traced against her collarbone as he pulled away.

Trying to steady her pounding heart, Yasmin opened her eyes and looked down to see a large, gaudy emerald hanging from a diamond encrusted chain around her neck.

"Do you like it?" the shah asked, confident that there was no way she could say no.

"It…" Yasmin nodded, swallowing hard. "It is beautiful."

"Then, do I not deserve a small show of gratitude?" he asked her, leaning in closer.

"Y…yes, sire," Yasmin nodded. "Thank you."

The shah lifted her face toward his, so that he could press his lips against hers, shoving his thick tongue into her mouth, once again, making her want to gag. When he cupped his hand on her bottom and yanked her tightly against him, she could feel the outline of his readiness hard and menacing through his robe. "That's more like it," he said roughly, as he pulled away, leaving Yasmin's mouth feeling cracked and bruised, and her nerves shattered.

Having given Yasmin her present, the shah turned to go, but at the door, he paused, and faced her once more. "Tomorrow, you will be visited by the seamstress, who will begin to measure you for your wedding attire."

"Wedding attire?" Yasmin gasped.

"Yes! We will be wed in two-week's time!" the shah announced gleefully. "And then," he added, his eyes taking on a lecherous sneer, "everything I want will finally be mine!"

Yasmin fought not to vomit as the door closed behind him, tearing the necklace from her throat and throwing it across the room. Climbing back up on her window seat, she looked out onto the darkened city of Mazanderan, pulling her knees close to her chest, as she prayed to Allah to send an angel to save her.

 **AN: Well, thankfully Erik and Kaveh have some help helping Yasmin, because the Shah is truly making MY stomach turn! Yuk! And it looks like Annie's about to embark on a new career path! :)**


	72. Chapter 72

CH 72

The dancers were all atwitter when Annie brought her daughter with her to visit the following day.

"Oh, she's so beautiful," Giselle's old friend Marie beamed, as she took Meg securely into her arms, giving the young mother a much-appreciated break.

"She looks just like Monsieur Giry!" exclaimed one of the younger girls, peering intently, and reaching out to touch one of Meg's springy curls.

"Are you certain you had anything at all to do with that baby?" asked another, whom Annie remembered had been particularly loyal to Babette.

Antoinette responded only with a tight smile, already nervous for what she knew was to come.

Attention was finally drawn away from Annie and the baby, when Madame Delacroix, dressed in a fancy day dress instead of her normal rehearsal attire and flanked by the Messieurs Giry, Richard, and Moncharmin, walked into the rehearsal room.

"Ladies," the ballet mistress called imperiously with a light tap of her baton as she stood in front of the wall-length mirrors. "Do take your places. I have an announcement to make."

The girls looked to one another in confusion, none of them having the slightest idea what Madame wished to speak with them about. Soon, however, they were all standing in their rows, in first position with their hands behind their back, giving the ballet mistress their complete attention.

"I have thoroughly enjoyed working with each and every one of you here at the Opera Garnier," Madame Delacroix stated diplomatically, for everyone knew full well, that there were several people gathered that she had not quite enjoyed. "The time has come, however," she continued, not wanting to waste too much time getting to her announcement, "for me to retire."

Loud gasps sounded from all around as her news was met with tears and questions.

 _"_ _But why are you leaving us, Madame?"_

 _"_ _Who will be our leader?"_

 _"_ _How will we dance without you?"_

"I will miss each and every one of you girls," the ballet mistress reassured her dancers, "but you will be just fine. I have given this a lot of thought and I believe I have decided on the perfect replacement."

The girls once again glanced back and forth at one another, their nervous whispers filling the room, as Giles looked toward Annie with a gentle smile and nodded.

Taking a deep breath, she stood and walked nervously to stand beside her predecessor, handing Meg off to her husband, and smiling awkwardly at her fellow dancers.

"Antoinette has graciously agreed to take on the Herculean task of ballet mistress," Madame Delacroix informed them proudly. "She has been a remarkable dancer from her first day at the Garnier, and I know she will lead you in the right direction. I expect you to afford her the same respect and obedience that you have always given me," she declared, giving the girls a warning look, and raising her finger for emphasis. "From this point forward, you shall refer to her as Madame Giry, and you will do whatever she says."

Madame Delacroix then turned to Annie, and ceremoniously, handed her young successor the baton. Annie looked from Madame to the symbol of authority that was being presented to her. Many times, she had counted along, as it faithfully thumped out the steady beat of the music to which they were dancing. She had heard its biting crack so often on the rehearsal floor, when Madame had not been pleased. She had grown accustomed to seeing the slender, black polished wood extending beneath her mistress's fist, the crystal globe peeking out at the top.

Annie reached out with trembling fingers and slowly curled her hand around the familiar symbol of authority. Suddenly, another moment flashed in her mind—the moment, so very long ago, when Erik had handed her a walking stick he had made for her after she'd clumsily sprained her ankle fleeing her stepfather's house. That one had been more crudely carved, perhaps, and not so highly polished, but—like this one—it had been intended to help her along on a journey that would be difficult at times.

 _Can you believe this, Erik?_ she inwardly asked her dearest friend, smiling as she could practically feel the comforting knotted wood of the tree limb he had fashioned into a cane. _Would you be proud?_

Hand firmly gripped around her new baton, Annie turned her attention to her corps. She watched the girls' expressions begin to change as realization struck that she would be their new leader. Some mouths fell open in surprise at the news, while other girls smiled to each other and nodded in obvious approval. But there were a few who glanced quickly from Annie to Giles, cynical sneers spreading across their lips, making it clear they thought Annie had only gotten the job because of her fortunate marriage.

Annie felt tension course through her body, as she realized that the road before her was not going to be easy. Immediately, however, she heard the phrase "I believe in you," whispered in her ear. The words were followed by Giles's hand landing solidly on her shoulder, giving her a firm squeeze, and Annie could feel the stress of the moment slowly melting away.

The hush in the room remained until Madame Delacroix slowly began to clap her hands. "Welcome your new ballet mistress, Ladies," the older woman encouraged. "Let her know she will have your full cooperation."

The room then filled with a roar of applause as the dancers celebrated the promotion of one of their own. The mocking faces remained, but with her husband at her side, and Erik's spirit filling her thoughts, Annie was able to look her opponents in the eyes, and stare them down until they too began to clap.

When a suitable amount of time had passed, Annie cleared her throat and said, "Thank you, ladies. But now, it is time for our rehearsals to begin." And with that, the dancers scrambled to their feet, and scattered around the room, beginning their morning stretches.

Performing the role of ballet mistress took quite a bit of adjustment for everyone involved.

"Alright ladies," Annie said one afternoon, after she had finally gotten Meg to settle down for a nap in the cradle that was now kept in the far corner of the rehearsal room, "break time is over."

She walked to her spot at the front of the room, expecting the dancers to take their places, but most of them continued to chat and laugh as if they had not heard her.

"Ladies," she said again, a bit louder this time, but only a few of the dancers even bothered to glance up. One of them had the nerve to wave, before resuming her conversation.

Feeling frustrated and invisible, Annie was at a momentary loss for what to do. It was true that they were in the very early days of preparation for the next production. Still, they could not afford to waste this much practice time.

"Ladies," she called again, to no avail. "Ladies!"

"Allow me," Marie said, as she walked over next to Annie and took the baton, which was leaning against the mirror into her hand. With a firm downward motion of her arm, Marie made Annie's baton produce a loud crack on the wooden floor—the kind that got everyone's attention.

The dancers all stopped, mid conversation, and turned to stare in Marie's direction. Stepping back, she allowed Annie to address the room.

"I said," Annie repeated, forcing her voice to be firm, even though she felt like she were shaking, "Break time is over. Now, we rehearse."

As the girls reluctantly began getting into formation, grumbling quietly to themselves, a cry from Meg pierced through the room and made Annie's spirit crumble. "We will rehearse the ballet from Act I Scene 3," she called, rushing over to lift her daughter from the cradle. _What am I doing?_ she wondered, positioning a still crying Meg on her shoulder and bouncing her gently to try to quiet her sobs. Facing the snickers and smirks from the dancers who had finally gotten into their places, Annie thought to herself _I must be mad_ as she began to count them in.

"I really don't think I can do this, Giles," Annie moaned, her head buried in her hands at the dinner table, as Giles held Meg and walked slowly around the room, trying to keep their daughter entertained by showing her the different knickknacks and trinkets that lined the shelves. "She doesn't nap during the day—she's constantly hungry—we wind up breaking more than we practice. The girls don't listen to me—they don't respect me. It is all I can do to get them to move by cracking that blasted cane!"

"Come now, Antoinette," Giles responded, as Meg happily began to gnaw on his finger. "It cannot be that bad."

"But it is," she insisted, lifting her head to look at her husband. "They see me as just another ballet girl—just another one of them. And being so distracted by caring for Meg isn't helping," With a heavy sigh, she told him, "Maybe you should go looking for someone else."

Giles walked over and knelt before her, so that both he and Meg were at Annie's eye level. Annie could not help but laugh when Meg flashed her a toothless grin and reached out to pinch her cheeks. "Antoinette," Giles began, happy to finally see a smile on his wife's face, "when you agreed to take on the job of ballet mistress, I promised that we would find a way to make it work if _you_ wanted to do it. Do you still want to?"

Taking another moment to gaze lovingly at her smiling baby, Annie closed her eyes and sighed, saying, "I do, Giles, but I'm afraid I don't know how."

"Well," Giles answered in a confident voice that demonstrated why he was such a successful manager at the opera house, "let's find ways to help you. First of all, why don't we ask Giselle to move in with us?"

"Move in?" Annie repeated his words in surprise.

"Yes, move in," Giles nodded excitedly. "Meg already loves her—and we know that we can trust her. She would be the perfect nanny for our daughter, allowing you to lead rehearsals undistracted. And it would also be an ideal way for her to earn some money, while still having her living expenses paid."

Annie could not keep from smiling, "The house is certainly big enough."

"Right!" Giles agreed, "Plus, Alain would be a built in playmate for our darling daughter."

"It is a rare father indeed," Annie giggled, "Who would be so comfortable with a boy who is only a few years older than his daughter, moving in to keep her company!"

"Well, they must move out before Alain hits his teen years, but we've got a little while before that!"

"Yes," Annie laughed, "A little while."

"Then," Giles continued, back on the topic of leading rehearsals. "You just go into that rehearsal room, and don't crack a smile! Stand there quietly," he added, with narrowed eyes, " _glaring_ at them until a hush comes over the room. Then, when every one of them is silent…waiting…you slam your baton down on the floor," he said, making the motion with his own hand, "and raise your nose into the air, asking _'Ladies, are you dancers?'_ And then, when they cower together and nod, _'uh-huh,'_ you respond—' _Then come and dance!_ ' It's as simple as that, really."

"Oh really," Annie asked her husband, her whole body shaking with laughter. "Is it now? And just how do you know this?"

"I was there for Madame Delacroix's first day," he answered with a goofy grin. When Annie's laughter just intensified, he added, "Why do you think I called her the dragon lady? I was convinced, after that day, that she could breathe fire!"

Annie's giggle fit finally subsiding, she said, "I love you, Giles. You have such a talent for making me hope when I am in the depths of despair."

"And I love you, Antoinette," he told her, all hint of humor gone from his eyes, "and I will always be here for you."

After leaning forward to bestow her husband with a kiss, Annie rested her forehead against his, content in the knowledge that as long as she had Giles with her, everything would always turn out all right.

* * *

The guard looked up from his nap when he heard the quiet knock at the door and wondered if he were still dreaming when he saw the tantalizing woman leaning against the doorframe.

"Good evening," he said, his voice husky as he sat up in his chair to take in the sight of her. The gathered blue band wrapped around her chest just covered her ample breasts, leaving her midriff bare. At her waist, a pair of filmy pants hung down from a belt heavy with golden bangles, making no secret of the shapeliness of her legs. Of course, Hami had spent much time during the last few days, running his eyes up and down that curvaceous body of hers, so he was well acquainted with her arousing attributes. "You are just now visiting with the future queen?" he asked her. "The hour is late."

"Well," she said, non-chalantly, slowly approaching the desk, "These _are_ the usual hours she would be expected to be pleasuring her future husband."

"That is true," the guard agreed, feeling little beads of sweat form on his forehead as he watched her coming closer and closer. "Yet I was beginning to believe you would not be coming tonight."

"What," she asked in surprise, slowly approaching the desk, "and miss seeing my favorite guard? Nonsense. Sneaking in to visit you has become the highlight of being allowed out of the harem to train the future queen. She has been a good little student," she added, when she was standing right before Hami, leaning her hip against his desk. "But of course, after tomorrow, our lessons will be over."

"She will no longer need your guidance after the wedding?" Hami asked, his throat feeling suddenly dry, because of the proximity of her bosom to his face.

"No," Faribah shook her head, forlornly, "I am afraid not. And the harem will be such a dull and lonely place once the shah has lost interest in us in favor of his new bride."

"I…" Hami swallowed hard, "I cannot imagine that happening. Surely no one has ever lost interest in you."

"Oh, Hami," Faribah sighed in a sultry tone, as she began to run one finger down the length of his chest, "You are sweet. But, yes, we will be ignored—set aside in favor of the new queen—with no one to pleasure…no one to touch…"

"That sounds…" Hami panted, "horrible."

"Oh it will be," Faribah moaned, "Just dreadful. Unless," she added, looking up at the guard, through lowered eyelashes, "we can find someone else to…serve."

"Who…who…" Hami barely croaked out, as Faribah's finger had nearly reached his waist and was still inching lower, "M…might that be?"

"Someone strong," she purred, leaning in closer to the trembling man, practically straddling on his lap, "handsome, _powerful_. Someone," she whispered, knowing that she had his full attention, as her hand trailed to the sash around his waist on which hung the prison key ring. "A great deal like you."

"Me?" Hami croaked, unable to believe that this alluring, seductive woman had just implied that she wanted to pleasure him.

"You," she whispered, as she crawled fully onto his lap and wrapped her arms around his waist, snagging the key ring on her pinkie finger as she did so. She lowered her head to kiss him, making certain to press provocatively on certain…more _prominent_ …parts of his anatomy, to make certain that he did not notice her fiddling with the fastener. "Oh, Hami," she moaned loudly, to distract him from the sound of the jangling keys she had just liberated them his sash, tucking them in among the thick gold bangles at her waist.

"Faribah," Hami grunted, thrusting his hips forward, out of his mind now with desire, "You have convinced me. I will let you pleasure me."

"Shh, Hami," Faribah pulled back a bit from his embrace, and placed her finger to his lips. "I cannot right now, because until the shah weds the new queen, I still belong to him."

Hami actually whimpered, when, smiling sweetly into his now horrified face, Faribah extricated herself from his lap. Still holding her eyes locked with his, however, she added, "Tomorrow night, Hami—after the wedding—I am yours…" as she backed herself out of his office.

As soon as she was out of the guard's line of sight, Faribah wiped the smile off her face and confidently made her way to the cellblock, through which she would have to pass to see Erik and Kaveh. Grateful that the late hour meant that the prisoners would be sleeping, she scurried down the corridor that led to the dungeon staircase.

"What kept you so long?" Kaveh growled as she opened the dungeon door, filling the chamber with light.

Faribah simply rolled her eyes at the impatient man. "It took time to acquire the keys from the guard…I had to properly _distract_ him."

This time it was Kaveh who blushed as he looked away, imagining just how she had managed to do that. Considering that the flimsy outfit she was currently wearing was even skimpier than her usual attire, he was certain the guard thoroughly enjoyed having the prison keys stolen from him—even though it would likely mean his head would surely follow.

"You did get the keys, though?" Erik asked, as he too approached the bars.

Smiling at the men behind the bars one final time, Faribah reached behind her back and held the key ring up for them both to see. "Yes I did, gentlemen," she answered with a glint in her eyes. "Time to set this plan in motion!"

 **AN: Well, Annie's got a little work ahead of her in her new job, it seems-and Faribah's already been doing some work winning the guard over... Let's hope it works to help her set her plan into motion...**


	73. Chapter 73

CH 73

Faribah hurriedly fit the key into the cell door, wrapping her fingers around one of the iron bars, and swinging it wide open. "Come, we must hurry," she urged, glancing over her shoulder toward the stairs behind her. "The wedding is set for tomorrow—we MUST not fail Yasmin. If we were to be seen, and our plan interrupted, she would have no choice but to submit to marrying the shah."

"That will not happen," Erik said darkly.

"It might if you don't hurry up!" Kaveh interjected, pushing past him, intent on stalking up the stairs and tearing down the door that imprisoned his sister with his bare hands.

"Take care," Faribah cautioned him, placing her hand on his forearm to halt his progress, "not to wake the prisoners in your haste! We don't want to alert the guard."

Pausing, and looking down at where her delicate fingers grasped his arm, he said, "I have no doubt of your _abilities_ to distract him." Then swallowing hard, he looked to Erik and urged, "Let's go get my sister!" Pulling himself out of Faribah's grasp, he once more led the way up the stairs.

Aware that time was of the essence, Erik took his first step outside the iron bars, finally a free man. Almost in disbelief, he turned to glance back at the dark hole that had stolen so much of his life. Nearly two years of loneliness and despair, and a never ending ache that filled his soul. All that time, torn apart from his Annie. All at the wicked whim of one man—one contemptible, depraved, despicable man—who lived as ruler, while he destroyed innocent lives one by one. As Erik stood frozen, staring at the darkness that would surely have consumed him had it not been for the care of a tenderhearted little girl, two words echoed over and over in his mind.

 _Never again._

"Erik," Faribah said urgently, "we must go… _now_!"

Turning to the harem girl, Erik said, "Go. Go with Kaveh to rescue his sister. There is a more pressing matter I must attend to."

"What could be…," Faribah began to question, until Erik cut her off.

"Once you have Yasmin, go to the docks," he told her, a resolute tone in his voice. "I will meet you there."

"But, Erik…" she protested once more.

"Are you two coming?" they heard the irate question, and Faribah glanced over her shoulder to the top of the staircase, where Kaveh was waiting for her to guide him to Yasmin.

"Go, with him," Erik said, in no uncertain terms.

Still not understanding this strange, masked man, Faribah scurried to meet with Kaveh.

Alone once more, Erik took a final glance at the dismal hellhole that had been his prison. _Never again_ , he thought once more, as he turned to make his own way up the stairs.

* * *

Kaveh and Faribah made it safely out of the prison, the former guard heeding the harem girl's warnings for quiet. They clung to the shadows, keeping themselves well obscured as they stealthily crossed the courtyard, stopping only briefly to retrieve the sword Faribah had hidden near the Palace entrance. Once they had secretly slipped inside, the only thing left was to ascend the tower stairs, and dispatch of the guards stationed outside Yasmin's room. Kaveh did not relish fighting the men whom he had once called friends, but he knew there was no helping it. They had already proven that they would fight him to uphold the Shah's wishes, and his sister's freedom mattered so much more.

"Did he tell you what he was doing?" Kaveh asked irritably, as they climbed the stairs that would lead to Yasmin's tower room.

"He merely said, he had a more pressing matter to which he had to attend," Faribah told him, close on his heels.

"That man has been locked in the dungeon for nearly two years!" Kaveh spat. "What matter could possibly be more pressing than rescuing the girl that was responsible for saving his life?"

"I don't know," Faribah answered, "But perhaps he will tell you when we meet him at the docks."

Kaveh found that he had nothing to say to that, so he merely emitted a quiet "hmph" and continued on his way.

When they reached the landing at the top of the steps, Kaveh was surprised to see the guard slumped over in his chair, a half eaten food tray spilled out on the floor next to him. Coming up behind him, Faribah smiled broadly.

"It worked!"

Kaveh looked over to her questioningly, "You did this?"

"Yes," Faribah answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I told you I would handle the guards."

" _This_ is how you handled him?" Kevah asked astonished. He had been certain the harem girl would have used _different_ means.

"Well, yes," Faribah explained. "He needed to be more than temporarily distracted, so I offered to bring up his dinner plate when I came earlier to see Yasmin. I slipped a sleeping draught inside, so that he would pass out."

"I just thought…" Kaveh began, until Faribah interrupted him.

"I know what you thought," she said, with lowered lashes. "The same thing everybody thinks of a harem girl. Contrary to popular belief, I do not share my body with just anyone. It was not my desire to be used by the shah. I just didn't have an older brother willing to save me."

A bit ruffled by the harem girl's candor, Kaveh retorted, "But you chose to be with the Angel of Death, did you not?"

A look of mortification spreading over her face, Faribah told him, "The order came in to the harem that one of us should be sent to the Angel as a gift. The other girls were afraid, so I agreed to go—I felt indebted to him for once saving me. I did offer myself to Erik, but he rejected me, in favor of the woman that he truly loves. Apparently, some women are regarded as _more_ than mere objects in their lover's eyes."

Kaveh stared at the harem girl, who had spoken so frankly about her past, even though it was truly no business of his. He saw the slight darkening of her cheek, and the downcast expression of her eyes, and he felt shame.

"Faribah," he said to her, in a contrite tone, "I have obviously misjudged you. I am truly sorry."

Swallowing hard, she met his gaze and in a hoarse voice said, "Come. The sleeping draught will not last all night. We must free your sister."

* * *

It was so late at night, and Yasmin knew she should be sleeping, but fears about what was to come in the morning plagued her thoughts and made rest impossible. Back and forth she tossed, in her soft feather bed, desperately trying to turn off the screaming in her mind, and yet it was no use. She had just thrown the covers off, planning to pace away some of her nervous energy, when the door to her room flew open.

"Yasmin!" she heard her name called through the darkness in a deep voice she knew so well.

"Kaveh?" She cried, as she looked to the doorway to where she could just make out the shadowed forms of her brother and Faribah in the light that spilled in from the corridor.

"Shhh…" she heard, a hushed whisper, as her brother held his finger to his lips.

"Oh Kaveh!" She gasped gleefully, as she leapt out of her bed and ran into his welcoming arms. He lifted her up, in his strong embrace, and whirled her around and around, tears of joy moistening both of their eyes. "Kaveh, how?" She whispered, when he at last set her back on her feet.

"Faribah," he replied, gazing over at the harem girl who still stood awkwardly by the door. "She worked with us to save you. Erik and I," Kaveh told her.

"Erik?" Yasmin's eyes lit up even brighter. "Erik is with you? He is safe?"

"He is meeting us at the docks," Faribah explained quickly. "But we must hurry to meet him so we won't be late."

Yasmin and Kaveh quickly exited the room where she had been held captive, Yasmin taking note of the unconscious guard on the chair outside her door. "Thank you, Kaveh," Yasmin said, again, looking toward her brother. "Thank you for saving me—and Erik."

"Don't thank me, Yasmin," Kaveh told her, glancing over to the woman on the other side of him. "Thank her." And meeting Faribah's gaze, he smiled.

* * *

In the palace's royal bedchamber, the shah lay in repose. He had chosen to sleep the night alone, in anticipation of his morning wedding to the emerald-eyed beauty who would become his queen. As he rested peacefully in his stately bed, surrounded by linens of pure white silk to match the sparkling attire he always wore, he had no inkling that death had slipped silently through his window.

At the foot of the bed, the hunter, clad all in black, stood in stark contrast to the vision of splendor created by his prey. But Erik knew the shah's magnificence was all an illusion. In truth, the Persian ruler was an evil, vicious man who had taken lives over differences in opinion. A fiend who would take the innocence and freedom from a young child against her will—who would manipulate and even drug his victims in order to get his way—turning another's weakness into a personal advantage. He killed without any qualms—unless, of course, allowing life would cause more damage.

That is what the monster had done in Erik's case. He had kept Erik alive only because of the certainty that every day, every hour, every beat of Erik's heart would be the purest form of torture without the woman he loved. The wicked ruler knew that his prisoner's own agony over the separation would complete his murderous task—causing Erik to rot until his heart finally lost the will to beat. He had not calculated that a young girl's care would give his victim the strength to keep on living, and now, that same little girl's life was on the verge of being destroyed—just another victim for the beast's own personal gain.

Well _never again_!

With catlike grace, Erik crept to where the shah's head lay nestled among a sea of pillows. Without a sound, Erik curled his fingers around the ruthless ruler's neck, fully intent on squeezing out every ounce of the shah's miserable life.

With a gasp the Shah awoke, his eyes flying open and his fingers reaching up in panic to claw at where Erik's hands now bruised his skin. His eyes were crazed for a moment, but he regained a certain level of composure when they focused on the dark figure looming above him.

"Erik," he gasped out a strangled greeting, attempting to put forth an air of calm in the face of such duress. Having the angel of death appear out of nowhere in his bedroom was an unnerving irritation, to be sure, but nothing that couldn't be dealt with using the dagger he always kept under his pillow. "I was told you still lived, but I could hardly believe such wild tales. I looked for you in the dungeons when I came down recently…but when I did not see your hideous face, I figured the rumors had been lies, and wished to cut out the tongue of the guard who made the ridiculous claim."

"You did not see me because I had become as a ghost," Erik told him through gritted teeth, "a malignant spirit languishing in hell for _two years_ , just waiting for the day I could wrap my spectral fingers around your worthless neck and relieve you of your miserable, pathetic, _little_ life."

"Well, it appears you have finally gotten your wish," the shah remarked, shifting his arm ever so slightly upwards towards his pillow. "It would figure that the dream of ending a life would have kept your heart beating."

"Not just any life, pig," Erik spat. "Yours!"

"Have you finally embraced the monster that you are?"

" _You_ are the monster!" Erik roared. "All those innocent men you forced into _my_ torture chamber…."

"Whose lives you willingly extinguished!"

"You drugged me!"

"I drugged the Arak!" the shah snarled, making another shift toward his dagger. "It was you who kept drinking."

"All this time," Erik seethed, tightening his grip on the shah's throat, "—these _years_ you have stolen from my life! I was to be _wed_! What about the torture you heaped upon her? To never hear from her beloved. To never know what became of him."

Though beads of sweat now formed on his brow from the tightness of Erik's grasp, the shah managed a derisive chuckle. "Do you really think…" he sputtered, "your little whore is still waiting for you? Don't you think…after all this time…she could have found a real…man to warm her bed after having been stuck with a… _freak_ of nature so long?"

Finally rattled by the shah's cruel words, Erik loosened his hold around the shah's neck just a bit—just enough for the shah to fill his lungs with desperately needed air. "You know _nothing_ of Annie!" Erik growled.

"And you know nothing of women, if you think there is even one alive on this earth who would be satisfied with a fiend like you!" And realizing the he had struck a nerve, the shah chose that moment to lurch to his right and grab the dagger hidden under his pillow, swinging it upward toward Erik.

Awareness returned to Erik quickly, however, and he caught the ruler's hand before he was able to complete the arc. Twisting his arm—snapping his wrist in the process—Erik plunged the blade deep into the shah's chest, pushing it past the muscle, past the bone, to lodge securely in the man's heart.

As scarlet life spilled out onto the sea of white surrounding it, staining what was once glorious splendor with hot, rancid death, the shah looked at Erik in awe. "I always knew you were a murderer," he croaked, his labored breaths triggering a rasping cough that left blood trickling down his chin.

"Rot in hell, you evil bastard," Erik seethed through gritted teeth, as he watched the cruel light fade from the man's eyes.

"I shall…see you there…one day as well," the shah rasped, his final words.

Breathing heavily, Erik stared at the lifeless body before him, realizing that the deed he had come to do had at long last been accomplished. "Never again, you bastard," Erik jeered at the corpse of the devil. _"Never again!"_

And turning to climb back out of the window through which he had entered, intending to meet the others at the dock, the last thing he heard was the shah's door opening, and the guard's voice declaring, "Your highness, the prisoners have escaped!"

After a brief moment of silence, the guards tentatively entered the bedchamber, a metallic, rusty smell filling the air.

"Sire?" the guard called, as he approached the bed. "SIRE!" he exclaimed, when he saw the ruler's blood leaving his body, red bruises blooming on his neck, his own dagger sticking out of his heart. Hurrying to the window, in the hopes of catching the shah's murderer as he attempted to escape, he gazed outside, to see nothing but shadows shifting in the courtyard below. "The shah has finally been claimed," he muttered, "by the Angel of Death."

 **AN: Ding Dong the shah is dead! And thanks to Faribah and Kaveh, Yasmin is finally free! Time for a celebration!**


	74. Chapter 74

CH 74:

Water lapped against the dock, as high tide rolled in, spraying the scent of sea salt into the inky night.

"By Allah!" Kaveh fumed, turning to face Faribah as he raked his fingers through his hair. "Are you certain this is where he said to meet?"

"Yes," she sighed, looking out into the darkness, squinting her eyes to see if she could make out Erik's approaching form in the shadows. Seeing nothing, she added, "I am certain."

"Then where _is_ he?" Kaveh snapped, his patience at its very end.

"I don't know…" Faribah shook her head, worry seizing her heart.

"If Erik promised to meet us here," Yasmin told her brother, her hand placed gently on his forearm, to try to calm him down, "then he will meet us."

"But by the time he gets here," Kaveh protested, trying to hold his irritation in check as he spoke to his sister, "the guards might have already found us, and all of this would be for nothing." Swallowing hard, and bracing himself for his sister's reaction, Kaveh placed his palms on her upper arms and said, "Yasmin, if he doesn't arrive soon, we are going to have to leave without him."

"Never!" Yasmin gasped, her eyes growing wide. Pulling out of Kaveh's hold she took a few steps back from him, saying, "I will never leave this place without Erik. He is my friend!"

"Yasmin," Faribah added gently, trying to make her see reason, "More than anything, Erik wanted you safe. You will not continue to be so if you stay here. None of us will."

"Least of all Erik, if we leave him," Yasmin shot back, unconvinced, her voice growing louder.

"Yasmin, please," Kaveh said, forcing a smile and trying once again to touch her arm gently, "calm down."

"I cannot calm down!" she insisted, tears of frustration filling her eyes. Flinching away, so that her brother could not touch her, she added, "He has suffered enough! I will not leave him. We must find him!" And turning on her heel, she stalked away from her brother and the harem girl.

"Yasmin!" Kaveh called as he and Faribah both charged after her, leaving the safety of the shadows. "Yasmin come back here!"

Yasmin was so focused on finding Erik, that she did not see the band of prison guards turn the corner until she ran into a heavily muscled chest, effectively halting her progress.

"Princess!" the guard exclaimed, placing his hands protectively on her shoulders. "Thank Allah you are safe! We've found her!" he called out loudly, declaring victory.

"And the scoundrels that kidnapped her!" snarled another, as several more guards surrounded Kaveh and Faribah, swords drawn.

"NO!" Yasmin screamed, unable to break free from the guard's hold. "He didn't kidnap me. He is my _brother_!"

Kaveh glanced nervously at Faribah as he drew his sword, placing himself protectively in front of her.

"Are you mad?" Faribah asked, clutching at his arm. "Do you mean to fight so many?"

"I have to protect her!" Kaveh shot back over his shoulder. "I can't let them take her again! I can't let them take _you_."

Stunned by his final words, Faribah could say nothing, but only clung to him tightly, pressing her head against his back, praying he would be victorious against such horrible odds.

The guards closed in on Kaveh, as his eyes darted wildly about, searching for some means of escape. His chances were looking rather bleak when from around the corner, they heard someone shout, "Stop!"

Though the guards kept their swords in place, all eyes turned to see the shah's lead advisors hurrying toward the docks. "Release them!"

"Release them?" the guard holding Yasmin asked in confusion. "These two have kidnapped the princess. We are holding them on behalf of the shah."

"The shah is dead. He has been claimed by the Angel of Death!" the head councilman declared as he pushed forward to where the company of guards held a shocked looking Kaveh at bay. Motioning for the men to move aside, the elder knelt in front of the former guard and bowed his head adding, "Long live the shah."

Kaveh met Yasmin's eyes and the siblings exchanged troubled glances, as Faribah asked from behind him, "What in Allah's name is going on?"

Pulling his gaze away from his sisters, Kaveh focused on the older man kneeling before him. "Please," he entreated, "tell us what has happened."

"His excellency was found," the advisor began, his head still bowed in reverence, "not long ago, quite dead in his bedchamber." Swallowing hard, he continued, "He had a dagger sticking out of his heart."

"I see," Kaveh said quietly, as he once again looked over to Yasmin, whose eyes were wide and whose mouth was agape, her usually olive tone skin having gone pale.

"Since the shah leaves no sons to carry on his legacy," the old man continued, "you, sire, are the next in line, by virtue of being his only living male relation."

Shaking his head, Kaveh said, "No! That's can't be true!" They had just been about to leave Persia! There was no way that the land could now belong to him.

"It is, sire," one of the other advisors added. "It is your right—and your right alone—to sit upon the throne of Mazanderan. Long live our new shah."

The guards all looked at each other exchanging awkward glances, and each man knelt before their former colleague whom they had just been holding captive—including the guard who had been holding Yasmin, leaving her free to run to her brother's side. Kaveh felt movement behind him, and soon Faribah had circled around to his front to kneel before him as well, as a show of allegiance.

"Get up!" Kaveh protested, catching her arms in his hands, before her knees could fully hit the ground. "For all that you have done for me and my sister, you will never kneel to me." And lifting her to her full height, a scarlet blush spread over her face, Kaveh set her beside him. With Faribah on his left side, and Yasmin on his right, he asked the elder, "What do we do now?"

"We go to the palace," the lead advisor said. "For you to claim your throne." And as they allowed the elderly man to lead them away, a spectral shadow followed them at a distance.

* * *

As they reached the palace, the chief advisor ordered the guards to escort Faribah back to the harem, and to make Yasmin comfortable in one of the grand bedrooms in the royal wing.

"Wait just a moment," Kaveh stopped them, holding his hand up, and looking toward the advisor. "Am I not the new shah? Should I not be giving the orders?"

"Well, yes, sire," the older man chuckled awkwardly, "but I know that you have come to this position rather suddenly, and there is much work to be done. The throne room is no place for female distractions…"

Raising himself to his full height, so that he could look down imposingly at the smaller man, Kaveh said, "My sister has been locked up in a royal bedroom for weeks, poised to become an unwilling queen to the despot who preceded me on the throne. She too is a member of the Royal Family, and she will be at my right hand as I ascend the throne."

Swallowing hard and nodding, the advisor conceded. "Certainly, Your Highness, your sister may stay if you want. But surely, this one…" he added gesturing toward Faribah before Kaveh once again cut him short.

" _This one_ " he hissed, perturbed at the dismissive way the older man referred to the woman who had just helped to save his and his sister's lives, "has a name. It is Faribah, and she is free to go and do whatever she wishes."

"Your Highness," the advisor begged, "she is a _harem_ girl. It is highly unusual for her to attend affairs of state."

"It was also highly unusual for the shah to attempt to marry a 14 year old girl, and yet, you would have allowed my predecessor to do that," Kaveh shot back. "Faribah saw that it was wrong, and she did what was in her power to stop it from happening. If she wishes, she can stay. She has earned her place at my side."

Faribah could not believe what was happening right before her eyes. This entire situation was surreal to her—from the escape, to Erik's disappearance, to the discovery of the shah's dead body. Now, a prisoner she had helped free was the new ruler of the land, and the words he spoke on her behalf were things she never thought she would hear anyone say, let alone the most powerful man in Persia.

"Sire," she said, bowing her head in humility.

"No, Faribah," Kaveh insisted, reaching out and gently tipping her face up, so that he could look her in the eye. "Use my name."

Faribah found that she was trembling slightly, but she did not know if it was because she felt overwhelmed by the strange events that had happened this night, or the way the new shah was touching her.

Swallowing hard, she began again. "Kaveh," she said, a bit unsteadily, still looking in his eye, "I am exhausted. If it pleases you I would like to go back to the harem and rest—until you call upon me to serve you."

"You will never _serve_ me, Faribah," Kaveh insisted firmly, wanting it to be clear that by her courageous efforts, she had elevated her status in his eyes. And then, his lip curling up slightly in a barely perceptible smile, he added softly, "But I _will_ be calling on you."

Kaveh allowed her to lower her eyes then, as he watched a rosy blush spread across her cheeks. "Guards," he called, his eyes never leaving the courageous woman before him. "Escort Faribah to the harem. Allow no harm to come to her, for she is under the special protection of the shah."

Glancing up one last time to Kaveh, she smiled slightly before turning to make her way back to the harem. As she passed by Yasmin, the younger girl reached out her hand and placed it on Faribah's arm. "Thank you," she said with a warm expression on her face. Faribah only smiled in return before allowing the guards to escort her back to her quarters.

* * *

Kaveh sat on his throne, and Yasmin on a smaller chair that had been placed beside him, as the advisors stayed deep into the night, inundating the new rulers with details of the realm that they deemed to be of the utmost importance. When Kaveh noticed his sister's eyes begin to cross out of exhaustion, he stood and ordered the black robed men to leave.

"It would not look stately for me to fall asleep tomorrow when addressing the city and announcing the regime change," he reminded them.

Reluctantly, they had to agree. They turned to go, but not before promising that they would continue with his instruction in the morning.

"I greatly look forward to it," Kaveh assured them, forcing a pleasant expression until the last one had exited the throne room, and closed the door behind him.

"What are we going to do, Kaveh?" Yasmin asked, rising from her seat and running into her brother's waiting embrace.

"We will try to carry out Ummi and Abi's wishes for justice for all people," he told her, hugging her comfortingly. "We will do our best to see their vision fulfilled."

"What if we fail, Kaveh?" she asked, nervously, the enormity of the responsibility that now lay on her shoulders weighing down upon her heavily.

"Anything you do will be a hundred times better than what that worthless pig did!" a voice called out and Yasmin and Kaveh pulled apart to see Erik leaning against the rear wall.

"Erik!" Yasmin shrieked, running over to where he stood and throwing her arms around him, burying her head in his chest. "I am so glad you're all right."

Erik stood there, arms at his sides, a bit taken aback by Yasmin's show of affection. This did not stop Kaveh, however, from stepping forward and glaring in Erik's direction.

"I will thank you, sir, to unhand my sister!" he commanded, not at all happy about seeing Yasmin embracing a fully grown man—even if that man was not embracing her back.

Erik gave Kaveh an incredulous look, as Yasmin released her hold on him only to slap him on the arm. "Where have you been? I've been so worried about you!"

"I had a rather pressing matter to which I needed to attend, Yasmin," Erik told her gently, his eyes drifting over to catch Kaveh's gaze.

"You know," Kaveh said quietly, "the shah was said to have been taken by the Angel of Death."

"Is that what they tell you?" Erik asked, and questioning eyebrow raised.

"Yes…even though the Angel was executed years ago…"

"Perhaps," Erik said, a stony expression on his face, "It was a ghost."

"Yes," Kaveh nodded, "It must have been—for surely no man would dare to assassinate the shah, knowing that it would amount to treason, and that the penalty would be death."

"Man, Angel, or Ghost," Erik responded, "—it matters not which one, nor if they were one in the same. The shah deserved his fate."

"That, he did," Kaveh nodded.

And with the exposed corner of his mouth curving upward in a crooked smile, Erik tipped his head to the side and declared, "Long live the shah!"

Kaveh could no longer keep himself from chuckling. "Thank you, Erik," he said, reaching out and shaking the masked man's hand warmly, "for all you've done to restore order in Persia. I will make it my mission to see that the people will once again be free. And you will always have a place of honor here, in our home."

"Thank you, Kaveh," Erik nodded, shaking the new shah's hand in return, "But I must go." Smiling as he thought of his beloved Annie, he added, "There is a life in Paris waiting for me."

"I will have you out of here in an hour's time then," Kaveh promised, "And you shall leave with enough money in your hand to get you safely to Paris—with a bit left over."

"Thank you, Kaveh," Erik nodded. "It would be much appreciated.

"Wait!" Yasmin cried, rushing over to the side of the room, grateful that she had been at least halfway listening to the advisors as they had been droning on about coffers and jewels and the royal treasury. Fiddling with the secret compartment, she finally managed to open the door to reveal a jewel-encrusted chest. Lifting the lid, she rummaged around a bit, before she gasped and cried, "Perfect!"

"Yasmin," Erik asked, his eyes narrowed, "What are you going on about?"

"Here," she said, turning to walk back over to where he stood. Reaching out and talking his hand, she placed in his palm a most exquisite ring. Lifting it in his fingers, Erik examined it carefully. The centerpiece of the ring was a very large fiery topaz—studded all around by luminous black diamonds. It was extraordinary—it was singular—and it was so very Annie.

Speechless, Erik looked back up at Yasmin, to see that his friend was smiling. "Take this," she said warmly, "and give it to your Annie—and make her yours forever."

His voice hoarse with emotion at the thought of putting a ring of this ethereal beauty on his beloved's finger, he answered, "I will, little princess!"

Pretending to be offended, Yasmin placed her hands on her hips, and declared, "I am not so very little!"

Laughing, Erik pulled Yasmin into an embrace, and this time, Kaveh did not complain.

"I will miss you Erik," Yasmin murmured, a few tender tears springing to her eyes.

"I will miss you too, little one," Erik admitted. "But I will never forget the kindness you have done me. If not for you, I would not be alive today."

"The same could be said for you, Erik," Kaveh interjected, stepping forth and clapping the masked man on the shoulder as he released Yasmin from his embrace. "For you were truly a hero, in your actions tonight."

"Promise me one thing," Erik implored, as he shook the new ruler's hand. "That you will destroy that abominable torture chamber as your first act on the throne."

"Consider it done!" Kaveh assured him, since eradicating that particular blight on Mazanderan had always been at the very top of his list. "Farewell, Erik, Angel of…Persia. Remember that here, you shall always have a home."

With a final smile and a nod to them both, Erik made his exit.

"You know he will never need a home here, Kaveh," Yasmin said, leaning her head on her brother's shoulder, still watching as Erik made his way down the hall. "He is going home so he can finally marry his beloved Annie."

"I hope you are right, Yasmin," Kaveh responded. Placing his arm around his sister's shoulder, as he too watched Erik disappear into the darkness, he said once again, "I truly hope you are right."

 **AN: Well, Erik's on his way back to Paris-and with a ring to give his beloved! Shhhh! Don't tell him she's already wearing one. . .**


	75. Chapter 75

CH 75:

Kaveh and Yasmin kept to their word and Erik was on a ship out of Persia within the hour—well before Mazanderan had awoken to find that a new shah had taken power overnight. The new royals had been very generous with the coffers, as Erik had found when he'd boarded the boat. A chest overflowing with coins and jewels had been waiting for him on the vessel, and he was certain to have a hefty sum left over after paying for the rest of his passage to Paris.

"It's enough for a home of our own, Annie," he murmured, as he knelt by the chest and allowed a few of the coins to fall through his fingers. "Enough for us to build a life—together."

Erik closed the lid of the chest and walked out onto the deck to gaze at the black waves that carried him away from his waking nightmare and back toward the safe harbor of Annie's arms. Never had he thought he would survive to see this day. He had been certain he would live out the rest of his time on this earth in that blackened pit into which he had been thrown…always yearning—always aching—for that one bright spot in his life that Annie provided.

He knew he was not worthy of it. During his time in Persia, he had grown into the abomination his mother had always accused him of being—the curse that the gypsies swore he was. Regardless of the shah's wicked actions—regardless of the drugs that had addled his mind and made it impossible to distinguish right from wrong—Erik had still murdered countless men after first putting them through unspeakable torture. Men whom he had come to find were innocent of any crime, other than speaking out against that monster who'd been seated on the throne.

 _I always knew you were a murderer,_ the shah's vindictive words came back to him, growing louder and more condemning as they echoed in his mind. _Have you finally embraced the monster that you are?_

Erik gripped the rail so tight his fingers whitened. "I am not a monster," he said firmly into the night, knowing that only the wind could hear his pitiful claim. "I was drugged," he tried to reason with his own accusing mind.

 _I drugged the Arak!_ he heard the shah remind him. _It was you who kept drinking_.

"I had no choice," Erik whimpered, feeling beads of sweat form on his forehead as his breath came to him in rapid puffs. But was that true? Had all the violence, all the death been due to the insidious influence of the drugs? Or had there been something in his nature—something warped and twisted within—that urged him to take that bottle; to give him an excuse to unleash the demon inside?

 _There is always a choice…_ his own perfidious mind taunted him. _The choice to drink. The choice to kill._

Erik shook his head back and forth, trying desperately to escape the mental agony he was inflicting upon himself.

 _You are a freak of nature, Erik,_ the vicious voice continued its brutal assault. _A fiend. Annie doesn't deserve to be stuck with the likes of you._

"I know she doesn't," Erik whispered, as he closed his lids tightly against the hot tears of frustration that had began to pool in his eyes. Hadn't he said the same so many times to Yasmin? That Annie deserved only the best of everything. Annie deserved beauty, and light. Not a beast who had to hide in the night. "But I love her," he muttered, the rail serving to hold him upright as his legs began to wobble. "She is my life."

 _Don't you think…after all this time…she could have found a real_ _man to warm her bed?_

Erik felt the air leave his lungs as he contemplated this unbearable possibility. He had been away for so long. Two years held captive in Persia, and months before that in Monaco. Before he left, he had promised Annie he would write to her daily, and yet for so much of that time, he had not been able to get _any_ word to her. Annie was beautiful— _so_ _very_ beautiful. Of course, she would have had the chance to find another man to love her.

 _"_ _I see you, Erik,"_ he heard her bell-like voice ring in his ears as if she were standing right beside him, assuring him that her feelings had not changed. _"I love you. Always…"_ And with the memory of her heartfelt promise, Erik felt peace wash over him. Annie would ease his heart. Annie would cleanse his soul. Soon he would be with her, and they would set about reclaiming the time they had lost. And with the generosity Yasmin and Kaveh had shown him, he would finally be able to give her the life that she deserved.

 _Surely, no woman alive on this earth would be satisfied sharing a life with you!_ that self-deprecating voice tried, one more time, to destroy Erik's hope.

Taking in a deep breath of the moist, salty air, Erik squared his shoulders and whispered to the wind, "You know nothing of Annie!" And as the sun was just beginning to brighten the sky, Erik turned and walked back into his cabin, blocking out the wicked thoughts that still sought to plague him, as he laid down his head to rest.

* * *

A few weeks into the rehearsal for the new season at the Opera Garnier, Annie had settled into the role of Ballet Mistress quite nicely. With Giselle keeping Meg at home for most of the day, she suffered fewer distractions, and was able to establish a routine with her dancers. They had come to recognize her as their leader, and the rehearsals for the new production were beginning to come together.

They would be performing an opera called _Il ritorno d'Ulisse in patria,_ by the Venetian composer, Claudio Monteverdi. A true master of his art, his work was truly breathtaking. It was the story of Ulysses, who had set out on a journey that kept him away from his wife and child for twenty years. Everyone in his kingdom assumed he was dead, and a multitude of suitors tried their hand at winning his beloved Penelope's favor. But her faith in him never wavered, and she waited for her husband, rejecting any and all suitors who attempted to win her heart—suffering great ridicule for "disdaining the love of living suitors, while expecting comfort from the ashes of the dead." In the end, however, her long suffering was rewarded when her husband finally returned home.

As they put the choreography together with the singers on the stage together for the first time, Annie had to fight to hold back tears. Watching her dancers, and hearing the singers tell the beautiful love story struck a chord within her heart. When the soprano and tenor emoted, _"_ _My sun, long sighed for! My light, renewed!"_ Annie had to excuse herself, asking the music director to keep an eye on her girls for the rest of rehearsal.

Wandering the halls of the opera house, Annie was not certain exactly where she was going until she found herself at the entrance to Box 5. _Of course_ , she thought, _it is time for a visit_.

Annie slipped quietly inside the ornate box, not wanting to be heard by the company rehearsing below. Her hand went straight to the hidden lever on the wall, remembering exactly where it was located, even after so long an absence. It had been ages since she had come to the shrine of her lost love, yet still her feet carried her surely toward the lakeside chamber where she and Erik had spent their last night together. The chill of the air wrapping around her, Annie gazed over to where the furs still lay, covered in dust now, from years of disuse, and she felt melancholy grip her heart. "Oh Erik," she murmured sadly as she crossed over to the wooden box that was full of mementos of her lost love.

Shortly before her wedding she had stored them down here for safekeeping. She had been embarking on a new life, and she'd felt it would somehow be unfaithful to her sweet new husband to hold so tightly onto her past. Now as she trailed her finger along the carved wood of the walking stick that protruded out of the box, rifled through all the unsent letters into which she had poured her soul, and lifted up the first comb with which she had ever swept up her hair, she felt old memories coming vividly back to life. The glint in his eye when he was feeling mischievous—the curve of his fingers as he bowed the violin's strings—the tender way he touched her cheek, or held her in his arms when she was sleeping.

Before she knew it, she was choking back a sob, as she knelt before the misty waters and dreamed of two golden eyes gazing back at her.

"I know it has been a long time since I visited, Erik," she began, her voice hoarse with emotion. "Life has been so busy, I just haven't had the time. I…" she continued, "I had a baby, you know. Her name is Meg. She is an absolute ray of sunshine. She is not the child I dreamed that you and I would share—she is so much like her…father…" her voice faltered and she took a moment to steady herself, feeling tears prick at the corners of her eyes.

"Madame Delacroix retired, Erik," she sniffed, turning the subject away from the fact the Meg was not Erik's child. "They named me as her replacement! Can you believe that? Me—a ballet mistress! Madame…" her voice trailed off before she could bring herself to utter her married name. "Madame…" she sighed again, closing her eyes tightly and shaking her head.

"We are performing a Venetian opera, this season, Erik—by Monteverdi. I know how much you liked him. It is the story of Ulysses—about his twenty-year long absence and the faith of his wife who never stopped believing that he would return to her…" Annie's voice trailed off as she sucked in a trembling breath, trying to quell the tide of sorrow that threatened to break forth from inside. "Remember how we used to dream of visiting Venice, Erik?" she asked, watching the first few tears make tiny ripples as they fell upon the lake. "Of riding on the canals, and seeing the magnificent buildings, and the music… _oh_ , the music… Might we have seen this very opera performed in their great opera house, Erik? Would you have praised Penelope's faith? How she never… faltered?" She took in a shaky breath. "How her heart stayed true?"

Annie closed her eyes tightly and tried to remain in control, but she could no longer hold back her sobs. Her body heaving, and her voice shaking, she gasped, "Should I have waited longer, Erik? Should I have spent my life, waiting, lingering, praying for your return? I would have done it, Erik. If I had any notion, any hint that you were still alive—any hope… that you could still be breathing, I would have kept waiting. I would have been true to you until my final breath, Erik—even if I never saw you again. Is that what you would have wanted? Is that what I should have done? Should I have been more like Penelope, disdaining the love of a living man, while yearning for comfort from the ashes of the dead? If there had been any hope, Erik…" she begged his spirit to believe her. "If there had been _any_ hope…"

Annie knelt there, curled in on herself, as fat, hot tears poured out of her eyes and ran rivers down her cheeks. After she had spent her sorrow, however, she swallowed hard and took a deep breath to regain a bit of her composure. "But I cannot regret marrying Giles, Erik," she told him, hoping he would understand. "He has been so good to me—and he loves me Erik…like I thought no one else ever would after I had…lost…you," she choked out the words that were so hard for her to say. "And forgive me, my Angel," she said, the tears coming on full force once again, "but he is. . . _dear_ to me, Erik. And he gave me Meg.

"And yet…there are times, dear Erik," she cried, with deep, heavy sobs, "I still _miss_ you. Dear God, how I miss you," she groaned once again, as she crumbled to the ground.

Annie lay there, sobbing on the cold stone, until the tears would no longer come. Finally, when her eyes had run dry, Annie realized that rehearsals must be drawing to a close. Picking herself up off the cold hard ground, Annie brushed off her skirts and dried her eyes with the back of her hands. Taking a deep breath and squaring off her shoulders, Annie looked once more at the lake—at the green waters swirling with mist—and whispered, "Goodbye, my love." Then she turned on her heels and made her way back to the stairs that would return her to reality.

When Giles saw Antoinette in the hall, he could tell she had been crying. She walked with her head held high, exuding a confident grace, but he was her husband—he knew when she was upset.

"Antoinette," Giles called, hurrying to catch up with her, "are you alright?"

Annie paused and turned around, feeling a bit of comfort wash over her when she saw the concern in her husband's blue eyes. "Giles, yes," she said, nodding, and once again smoothing out her dress, "I'm quite fine. I was just on my way back to rehearsals…"

"The music director called rehearsals early, Antoinette," Giles informed her. "The girls have all dispersed for the evening."

"Oh," she said, quietly, looking down at the floor, and floundering for something to say. "I see. Well I left rehearsal before because…"

"This one's a hard one for you, isn't it, Antoinette?" Giles asked softly, tipping her chin up so that he could look into her eyes.

As much as Annie didn't want to confirm Giles's suspicions—as much as she didn't want to admit that in the midst of her perfectly happy life, she still felt so much sorrow over Erik—Annie simply nodded at him, without saying a word, begging the tears to please stay away this time. Just this once.

"I know, Antoinette," Giles said warmly, curling his arm around her shoulders and pulling her in close to him. "Your first production as teacher is bound to be difficult. But you're doing a wonderful job."

Annie smiled gently, resting her head on Giles's shoulder, content to let him believe that the source of her difficulty was the adjustment period she was still experiencing, rather than the nature of the show.

"Come on, darling," Giles muttered. "Let's go home. Holding Meg is sure to make you feel better."

"I'm sure you're right, Giles," Annie agreed, as she once again allowed her husband to lead her away from her sorrows

 **AN: Giles, how on earth could you be so clueless!**


	76. Chapter 76

CH 76

It had been a long, grueling trip out of Persia. For months Erik had journeyed, crossing both the Caspian and the Black Seas, and traveling by rail through the difficult terrain of Eastern Europe. As Kaveh and Yasmin had promised, the treasure they sent with him was much more than necessary, affording him the ability to rent private compartments when they were available, so that he could safely escape the prying eyes that seemed ever present. Finally, however, he had reached the final stretch of the journey. Within the hour, he would be in Paris.

Erik felt excitement bubbling inside him, like lava in a volcano, and he was sure that at any moment he was about to explode. Despite the worries and fears that had plagued him through his voyage, as the miles drew him closer and closer to reuniting with his love, he could barely contain his joy and anticipation. He recalled the letter in which she had promised to be waiting at the railway station upon his return—of how she would throw herself into his arms and smother him with kisses before he could even disembark the train. Oh, how he dreamed of feeling her elegant limbs wrapped around him, of her eager lips joining with his once more.

Obviously, she would not be waiting at the station—she did not even know he was coming. But as soon as he found her at the opera house, he intended on scooping her up into a passionate embrace, and dragging her off to the preacher to finally make her his wife, using Yasmin's ring to seal his promise. He didn't care who saw. The time for hiding and pretense was over—it was time to make Annie his own—publically and without any room for question. He only hoped he could manage to make it through the ceremony before completely ravishing her. He would have to pay the officiant a little extra to make it quick.

For the nearer he had gotten to Paris, the more his mind had been distracted by thoughts of his dear angel—of her exquisite beauty and her joyful smile—of her kisses that tastes like sweet wine, and her touch that burned like flame. Memories swirled in his mind of their last night together, when they had found utter bliss in joining their bodies the way their hearts and souls had been united all along. He could hardly wait to once again behold the beauty of her smile, taste the heaven of her kiss, and lose himself in the ecstasy of her touch.

Leaving her in the first place had been a mistake. He could see that now—and he had so much to make up to her. He belonged to her, in the same way that she belonged to him. They should never have had to suffer apart. But now he intended fix that. He would take her to the preacher, and then take her home—wherever home would wind up being for the night—and he would not let her out of his arms—or out of his bed—until all his sins had been atoned for, and all his transgressions forgiven. Tonight would be the first night of the rest of their lives—and he could not stop fantasizing about ways to be sure she would never forget it.

But first, he would have to look the part. He had used some of Kaveh and Yasmin's gold to purchase new clothing once the first ship had made port in Russia—just a few items to replace the tattered rags he had been wearing when he left Persia. He buttoned the final button on the clean white dress shirt he had paired with a simple pair of black slacks, and slipped into his leather dress shoes. It was a modest outfit, but he knew it would hardly matter to Annie. She had always been able to see right through any outward pretense straight into his soul, and when she gazed into his core today, she would see nothing but joy, and adoration, and so much love—only for her.

He had not been quite been able to force himself to enter a barbershop—the thought of a stranger coming that close to him with a blade having made his stomach turn. But he had purchased a comb with which he could tame the unruly mane of hair that had grown after the shah had so cruelly shorn him before throwing him into the dungeon. He glanced into the small round mirror as he combed back his tresses and secured them away from his face. He recalled how Annie had always loved to play with his hair, curling the ends around her fingers over and over again as they would lay, head to head and look up at the stars. Would she be disappointed in this tattered, uneven mop that lay atop his head, or the dark whiskers that covered his chin? Erik smiled as he remembered how she would remove his mask immediately upon entering their home, preferring the abomination with which nature had cursed him to any attempt he made to cover it up. Something told him his hair would be the least of her concerns. He certainly knew he wouldn't be giving it a second thought once he was embracing her with his arms and devouring her with his lips.

Erik pulled on his frock coat and smiled as he glanced one more time in the mirror. Straightening his lapels, his golden eyes glowed as he uttered, "I'm coming for you, Annie. I am finally coming home." And at that moment, the scream of the train whistle announced his arrival in Paris.

* * *

Erik stood before the magnificent Palais Garnier, statues of the great composers staring down at him, Harmony and Poetry beckoning him forth from above. He was reminded of his dear friend Charles, the architect and designer of this glorious building, as he marveled once again at the splendors in front of him. He made a mental note that he would have to contact Charles after he and Annie were married—to share the blessed news. But first, he had to find his bride.

It was the middle of the afternoon—only about two short hours before she would be done for the day. He had half a mind to simply barge straight up onto the stage and whisk her away right that instant, but Erik knew that would not exactly be good for her career. Besides, forcing himself to be patient would allow him a pleasure he had not had in far too long. He would be able to watch her dance.

Squaring his shoulders as if he belonged there, and pulling his fedora down to obscure his mask, Erik entered the building. Paying no heed to the few other people who were milling about in the foyer, he headed straight for Box 5, hoping that it was still the custom to leave it unlocked. He paused briefly in front of the rich mahogany door, admiring the round window, frosted around the rim, which allowed a brief glimpse at the crimson curtains that hung inside. Reaching out to turn the brass handle, he felt a wide smile spread over his face as the door opened easily for him.

He slipped inside, and ran his fingers lovingly down the wall to his right, which he knew would open to an entire world behind and below if he only pressed in the right spot. He would visit his underground lake soon, he knew, but nothing would stop him right now, from watching Annie dance. So moving forward into the main portion of the box, Erik took a seat behind the curtain and looked for Annie on the stage.

He found her almost immediately, standing off to the side, her arms crossed in front of her chest. She tapped her foot in a steady beat, watching as the rest of the dancers performed a synchronized choreography. She was dressed differently than they were too—wearing a skin-tight black leotard under a long black tutu that fell to her ankles. Erik swallowed hard as he appreciated the way the black fabric hugged the curves of her breasts—which seemed even fuller and rounder than he remembered. His fingers tingled with the desire to hold them in his hands, squeezing their pink tips, eliciting the sighs of ecstasy that were the sweetest music to his ears. But he suppressed a groan and reminded himself he had to wait just a little while longer. Surely, in but a few moments, Annie would join the dance. Until then, he would satisfy himself with drinking in her beauty.

Her hair was tied tightly back into a ballerina's knot, and he fantasized about pulling each pin slowly out of her hair, making those ebony waves cascade over her shoulders. He ached to tangle his fingers in their softness, to bury his face in that gossamer cloud and breathe in the exquisite fragrance that had teased at his memory in the years he'd been gone.

Next he studied her rosy lips, set in a straight line as she watched the dance. He longed to feel them parting against his, allowing him access to explore her sweet mouth, her teeth gently nipping at his bottom lip, as her arms pulled him closer—always closer.

He could not fully see her eyes from this distance, but Erik realized that was probably a good thing. For he knew that once he gazed into those onyx orbs, he would be lost, unable to speak—unable to breathe—only capable of staring forever into those glittering jewels that had seen down to his core and shown him the very essence of love. He yearned to lose his soul to her once more—certain, as he was, that she would take only the best care of it.

Suddenly from the side of the stage, a man and a woman entered—the man carrying a young child, not yet a year old, and a toddler trailing dutifully behind the woman. Squinting his eyes at the pair, Erik did not know the woman, but recognized the man to be Giles Giry, the young manager who had taken such a liking to Annie the first time he met her, that he had offered them lodging in his cottage. Was this red haired woman his wife, then? Had Erik really been away so long that Giry could have married and become the father of a toddler the age of that boy, not to mention the babe he carried in his arms?

As the couple advanced upon the stage, the baby in Giry's arms began to coo and flap her arms like a round, pudgy bird. The sound caused Annie to look over her shoulder and the smile that lit her features was a joy to behold. She immediately extended her arms, and Giry bent low to hand her the child, who Erik noted was wearing a dress and had curls the same color as the manager. As he handed off the baby, he kissed Annie solidly on the lips and Annie appeared to eagerly kiss him back, pulling away only to rub noses with the now giggling little girl.

Erik's fingers curled tightly around the rail to the box and he felt as if he had been punched in the gut.

 _Do you really think your little whore is still waiting for you?_ Erik brought his hands to his ears, to block out the horror, but the shah's cruel words still echoed in Erik's mind. _Don't you think after all this time she could have found a real_ _man to warm her bed after having been stuck with a freak of nature so long?_

"No," Erik groaned, shocked by the domestic scene he was watching with his own two eyes.

"Are you ready to conclude rehearsals for the day, Antoinette?" Giry's words drifted up to where Erik sat, agony squeezing his heart. "Meg has missed you terribly, today."

"It's true," the red head chimed in. "She had been incredibly fussy until she saw your face."

"Is that true, little Meg?" Annie asked the smiling baby in her arms. "Are your teeth giving you trouble?"

"I think she just missed her mother," Giry answered, putting an arm around Annie's shoulders. "I missed her too."

" _No_ ," Erik gasped, not believing what his traitorous ears were hearing. Annie could not be that baby's mother! She looked just like…Giles Giry.

 _You know nothing of women, if you think there is even one alive on this earth who would be satisfied with a fiend like you!_

Annie looked up and gave Giry one of her lovely crooked smiles. "I suppose we can go home." Then, turning to her dancers, Annie stomped her foot to get their attention. "Ladies, that is it for the day," she told them, inspiring bright, happy smiles among the sea of girls. "We will resume tomorrow morning."

"Thank you, Madame Giry," the grateful chorus rose, as the girls began to chatter as they made their way off stage.

 _Madame Giry_ the words pounded in Erik's brain like a bullet, ricocheting off of his skull to shatter him over and over. _Madame Giry, Madame Giry._

" _NOOOOOOOOOOO!_ " Erik loosed a visceral roar as he raked his fingers roughly down his face, too enraged to notice that he dislodged his mask as he did so. Rising to his full height, he wrenched the heavy velvet curtains from their fasteners, hurling them outward to land in the auditorium below.

Screams erupted on the stage, and ballerinas, most of whom had only heard the tales of the haunting that had taken place three years ago, shrieked that it must have been the ghost. Giles had hurtled off the stage to inspect the curtain, irritated that it had fallen once again. Giselle was busy trying to calm a crying Alain, but Annie stood transfixed in her spot, holding Meg tightly to her chest. She stared into the shifting shadows of Box 5 in stunned disbelief, feeling her legs begin to go weak, as she remembered all too well the last time the curtain had fallen.

 **AN: Poor Erik-his world just came crashing down. Just like the curtain.**


	77. Chapter 77

CH 77

Annie was still staring into the weighty darkness, her heart thumping wildly as she tried to come to grips with what had just happened. She had not only seen the rich, crimson drapery crash to the ground—she had also heard the thundering bellow as the heavy fabric severed from its moorings. _It had happened once before_. And that time, it had been more than just an accident.

"That's strange…" she heard her husband mutter from what seemed like worlds away as her eyes continued to stalk the darkness for any secrets it might reveal. "This curtain did not merely come loose… It looks like it was literally torn from its hooks."

Again, the deafening blast they heard just before the crash echoed in Annie's mind. _It had not been just the fabric tearing._

Annie's breath came in short, rapid puffs as she shook her head against the impossible. This could not be. _How_ could this be? Erik was gone. He was _dead_. Had the opera house now _truly_ acquired a ghost?

"…I'm going to go up to investigate," Annie heard through the pounding thrum in her ears.

It was enough to jolt her out of her stupor. She quickly turned and handed Meg to Giselle, explaining, "I have to go with him," and was off the stage, before the startled redhead, still trying to comfort her own child, could ask any questions.

She moved quickly alongside her husband, easily keeping pace with his long, determined strides, fueled on by the dread and fear that were building in her mind. When he thrust the door to Box 5 wide open and stormed inside, Annie was right behind him, sparing only a passing glance at the antechamber wall, before following him into the seating area.

"Would you look at this…" Giles remarked, walking immediately to the front of the box where the upper part of the curtain was still hanging on its hooks—except for the ones that had been torn out of the wall. But Annie could not look, because as soon as she had arrived in the main portion of the Box, her eye had been captured by a swath of white lying on the floor. Crouching down, she lifted the thin fabric in her hand. Clumsily cut and inexpertly sewn, it was long enough to cover one side of a face, a hole cut where an eye might have peeked through. A ribbon hung from one side, its mate attached, having been torn away from its seam on the other side.

Annie fought back tears as she recalled the masks—so like this one—which she used to make for Erik. This was not possible. _How_ could it be possible? Was her past coming back to haunt her? Had her dead love returned as a ghost to torment her heart and afflict her mind? Had her dear, lost love… _come back_?

"Mon Dieu!" A horrified looking Moncharmin exclaimed as he and Monsieur Richard entered the box. His hands raised to his face in surprise, he asked "What has happened?"

Annie rose to her feet and tried to pull herself together, tucking the mask inside her skirts with trembling hands before the managers could notice her discovery.

"I have no idea," Giles responded, still examining the hanging track, his hands placed firmly on his hips. "It appears that somehow the curtain was torn."

"Torn!" Moncharmin exclaimed, confused for a moment. But then, his eyes growing wide with fear, he turned slowly to Richard and asked, "A torn curtain. You don't think…"

"No," Richard blustered, having had enough of his colleague's propensity for drama, "I don't think a _ghost_ tore down the curtain!"

"But the last time…" the nervous man began.

"The last time the curtain fell, it had not been hung properly," Richard insisted, effectively cutting off Moncharmin's speculations. "What do you think this time?" he continued, looking toward Giles. "Vandalism?"

"It would appear so," Giles responded, running his finger along the remnants of the fabric, not paying Moncharmin's histrionics any mind.

"Giles," Annie said, placing her hand on his shoulder blade, hoping that he would not notice how much she was still shaking. "I think we should go."

With a disgusted sigh, Giles took one last look at the tatters of the ruined drapery. "I don't know if the seamstress will be able to fix this, Antoinette. We might have to order a whole new curtain."

"Well then," she said, wishing to get the managers—especially Moncharmin—out of the Box before they started poking about where they shouldn't. "Perhaps we should go order one. Come," she urged. "I need to feed Meg. And besides, I think we have seen all there is to see here."

She guided her husband gently in the direction of the door, knowing that she had just spoken a lie. There _was_ more—so much more—but it simply _had_ to remain hidden. Even she didn't fully understand what was happening, but this was not the time for Giles or the other managers to discover what lay beyond Box 5. If it meant she had to be untruthful—even to her husband—than so it must be.

Moncharmin and Richard hurriedly followed them out of the box, chattering on about maintenance men and measurements the entire time. And with a final glance at the wall that Annie knew hid an entire world, she closed the door behind them.

* * *

After leaving the disturbing scene, the men had convened in Giles's office, to discuss the repairs necessary to fix the curtain, and Annie had sent Giselle home with Alain, who had been in no mood to hang around the opera house after the commotion in the auditorium. Annie had retired to the little apartment that had been built in the dormitories, should there ever be a ballet mistress who wished to remain on site with the girls. It had never been lived in before—Madame Delacroix having had her own home that she returned to every night—but Annie used it occasionally when she needed a quiet place to nurse Meg in peace. And as she held her now slumbering daughter in her arms, Annie could, at last, think. Unfortunately, she still could not make heads or tails of the mystery that was currently surrounding Box 5.

The scrap of fabric she had taken was preying on her mind. It could not have been there very long, since the grounds crew checked the auditorium and every box before closing the building for the night. Surely they would have discarded the small white fragment as a worn out handkerchief or other piece of refuse that had been left behind by careless audience members. But Annie recognized it for what it truly was.

It was a mask.

Annie closed her eyes and shook her head. She did not know how it could be possible. It had been more than two years since she had lifted tangled strands of Erik's hair out of a box and her life had shattered into pieces. _Erik is dead,_ were the only words written on the card that had accompanied the box—but they had been all that were needed to break her. Four short syllables to steal her spirit. Ten indifferent letters to shred her soul. If it had not been for Giles, she never would have recovered from reading those words, and as it was, there remained pieces of her heart that were still bleeding.

Was somebody out to vandalize the opera house? Were they trying to recreate the incident from three years ago so that all attention would be placed on _the ghost_ , and their own misdeeds would be overlooked? Annie could almost believe that were the case if it had not been for the mask.

 _Is someone deliberately out to hurt me?_ Annie asked herself, hardly knowing how that could be possible. Who would have even known about Erik? Who could have known about his mask?

Giles?

Annie immediately put that thought out of her mind. Giles was her husband—he would never hurt her. He knew exactly how she had felt about Erik—how she _still_ felt about Erik. He had always shown her understanding and complete honesty—he would never be capable of doing this to her.

But then, who else?

"Are you ready, my dear?" Giles asked, entering the small apartment with a sigh, running his fingers through his hair. "Moncharmin talked my ear off with his nonsensical concerns about _the ghost_ ," he said the last two words while making his eyes go wide, in a mocking imitation of his ridiculous colleague. "I am exhausted and truly ready to put an end to this day."

"Meg is finished eating, Giles," Annie said as she rose to greet him. "But I am afraid I must stay a little longer."

"What?" Giles asked her incredulously. "Earlier you said you were ready to go."

"Yes," Annie nodded, "but while I've been sitting here with Meg, I have had much time to think. There are some changes I would like to make to the choreography and I really want to do it now, while they are fresh in my mind."

Giles groaned and asked, "Can't they wait? It has been a long day, Antoinette."

"I am afraid not, Giles," Annie remained firm, knowing that there was no way she could leave the opera house without making her own further investigation.

"Alright," Giles said, flopping down into an easy chair in the corner of the room. "I'll wait here with Meg."

"No, darling," Annie said, walking over sitting down on his lap. "Why don't you take Meg home? I'm sure Giselle has already started supper, and you know you would be more comfortable relaxing in the parlor with a glad of brandy than you would be sitting here and waiting for me.

"But what about you?" Giles asked, reaching up to stroke her hair.

"I will have the driver take me home when I am done. And I will grab a bite to eat in the dining hall. Don't worry about me, darling," she assured him. "I will be fine."

Giles looked at her for a moment, weighing his options. But having to admit that he wanted nothing more than to just go home, kick off his shoes, and relax in front of the fire, he reluctantly nodded.

"All right, Antoinette," he begrudgingly agreed, as Annie moved off his lap to allow him to stand. "I am going to take you up on your offer. Are you sure you will be alright here?"

"Of course, Giles," she chuckled. "I will be fine."

Giles walked Annie down to her office, where he leaned down to gently take his sleeping daughter in his arms. Stealing a kiss, he murmured, "Please don't be too late, darling."

"I promise, I won't," she assured him, kissing him back sweetly.

"I love you, Antoinette," he said with a smile, as he turned to walk down the hall.

"I'll be home soon, Giles," she beamed at him, as she watched her husband and her daughter disappear from view.

As soon as they were out of sight, the smile faded from Annie's face as she turned and made her way toward Box 5. Her feet moved as if she were walking through quick sand, and her heart began to beat about a thousand times faster. She dreaded this visit as much as she was compelled to make it. But as she reached inside her skirts and ran her finger along the piece of white fabric tucked in at her waist, she knew she had to do this—to go down to the lake, to see with her own two eyes, if the impossible had come to pass.

Her fingers shook as she pressed the lever and held her breath, the heavy wall moving aside, to allow her entrance into the world of darkness that lay below the Opera Garnier. Having enough wits about her to grab the lantern hanging on the opposite wall, Annie set upon her way.

The familiar passageways seemed, tonight, somehow foreign and she jumped at every shadow she met along the way. Her very footsteps seemed to pound and echo between her ears, as the flickering light of her lantern cast upon the walls ghouls and demons, who watched and warned that tonight she would meet her doom.

Finally, she stood just outside the wide-open chamber, the bubbling of the lake bringing to mind a dying man's final gurgles. She paused there a moment, wondering if perhaps she should turn around and go back the way she had come. Never searching meant never finding, but she was not entirely certain she was ready for what she might discover when she rounded that final bend.

Reaching into her waistband and removing the scrap of fabric, however, she held it tightly within her grasp and whispered, "I have to know."

As soon as she turned the corner, she saw him—a solitary figure, clad all in black, his back to her as he stared off into the mists of the lake. His tall, slight form was hunched forward, his long black coat, hanging off bony shoulders, and falling past his knees to the brush the backs of his calves. His arms appeared to be wrapped around his chest, his long black hair hanging limply down his back, tied into a loose, uneven ponytail.

Annie felt as if her heart was about to burst within her chest. She dared not make any sound, terrified that the vision before her would fade away and dissolve if she even so much as breathed. Her legs propelled her forward, staggering gracelessly, completely on their own accord, as she struggled to believe the sight that was before her very eyes.

Slowly, the spectral figure turned, as if he sensed her presence. An almost skeletal hand concealing the right side of his face, his golden eyes locked with hers from between long, spindly fingers.

Sucking in a hitched breath, Annie hurriedly took the last few steps to close the distance between them. She reached up with trembling hands to grasp the palm that was hiding the features she so urgently needed to see. When he flinched, pulling instinctively away from her touch, Annie whimpered, feeling tears spring to her eyes. A desperate plea upon her face, she once again lifted her fingers to brush against his hand, and this time he let her.

Slowly, oh so slowly, she traced the line of his elongated digits, until her own were at last curling around his palm. With a gentle pull, he allowed her to move his hand away from his face.

His mangled features exposed to her at last, Annie forgot to breathe as she took a moment to take in the sight of him—her war torn, battle scarred angel gazing back at her, sent down, once again, straight from heaven. Tentatively, she ran adoring fingertips along his cheeks, caressing the wrinkles and divots, and making each roughhewn blemish feel somehow smooth. She lightly brushed the outline of his lips, causing him to shiver in response.

When new tears sprung to her eyes as she gingerly cupped the cheek he had so recently marred with scratches of frustration, the tenderness in her touch became too much for Erik to bear. His emotions spilled forth to overwhelm him causing him to fall to his knees, his body seized by loud, wrenching sobs that rent Annie's heart in two. Wrapping her arms around him, she held him close to her, burying his head in her bosom, as the sobs overtook her too.

"Don't let go of me, Annie," Erik begged as he clutched at her back desperately. Clinging to this one beacon of light that brought meaning to the darkness of his whole miserable existence, tears poured forth from his eyes. "Please Annie, don't ever let me go."

 **AN: Well, they are finally reunited-and I do believe that were it within her power, Annie never WOULD let him go-ever again. But, as you know, they have MUCH to deal with.**


	78. Chapter 78

CH 78:

Hours passed…days…perhaps a lifetime as they remained there, locked in their desperate embrace. They hardly knew, for time no longer had meaning when two halves of a soul were once more reunited. Neither one spoke—neither one _breathed_ —except to drink in the blessed existence—the holy essence—of the other. After having been apart for so long, it was as if they had once again forgotten how to exist outside one another's arms.

Neither could say how long it had been before lucidity returned, but eventually, Annie again became aware of her surroundings. Her fingers trailed along Erik's hair, finding what had once been so silken and smooth, to have become dry and brittle during his absence. It pained her to be able to feel his bones so distinctly through his clothing, but it didn't matter. She was holding her sweet dark angel in her arms. She would forever be grateful for this gift.

Pulling slightly away from him, she looked down to meet his eyes wet with tears, yet glowing with the fire she had always known fueled his soul, and found she was powerless to do anything other than draw him close to her once more, cherishing the feeling of having him so near.

"Erik," she muttered, her voice trembling with emotion as she pressed him even more closely to her, "I never thought I would be able to hold you in my arms again."

For a time, Erik said nothing, only clung to her for dear life. After a moment, however, Annie felt his whole body stiffen. "Is that why," he responded in a cool murmur, "you filled them with someone else?"

" _Erik_ …" Annie breathed, hers arms loosening their hold on him as stark reality came crashing back to her.

"That's not the name you cry out in the night anymore, is it Annie?" he asked her in a venomous tone, his cold words coiling around her like a snake, making it impossible for her to breathe.

Closing her eyes tightly against the accusations she felt radiating out from him, she shook her head and said, "Erik, it's not as you think."

Rising to his full height with a surprised expression he asked her, "Oh? Is it not?" He began to slowly circle around her asking, "Are you not, now, _married_ to the manager who has loved you from the moment he first set eyes upon you—the man who offered you his home so that you could live in peace with your _brother_ as he endeavored to get close to you? Is not his child—the baby girl who resembles him so greatly—also a child of your body?"

Lowering her head Annie once again began to sob, "Erik," she moaned in a broken whisper, "It was not like that."

"Well then," he continued his interrogation, rounding once again to be facing her, "what was it like, _Madame Giry?_ "

Annie groaned as she heard him speak her married name in a voice that dripped with poison. Her head began to pound and she felt she was going to be ill as nausea built in her stomach.

"TELL ME!" Erik suddenly roared, bending low to bring his face right next to hers.

"I thought you were dead!" Annie shouted in return, her entire body shaking with her tears.

"Or did you simply wish it?" Erik spat, as he turned and walked a distance away.

Annie watched him in disbelief. "Never!" she sobbed. "How could I ever wish for something like that? I only yearned for you to be there by my side."

"Is that why you let the manager take my place in your bed?" he growled, turning back to look at her, his face a snarling mask of betrayal and anger.

Annie felt her legs begin to go weak, and her head begin to spin, "Erik, how could you say such things to me?"

Quickly closing the distance between them, Erik bellowed, "How can you have a husband and a child when I have been languishing in **_HELL_** for years with nothing but thoughts of you to get me through the endless night?" Quieting a bit when he saw the tears that were steadily streaming down her face, he added, "Not a day…not a moment…went by when you were not on my mind. I knew in my heart that I did not deserve you—that I _never_ deserved you—but you were my… _angel_ …" he told her, his voice quivering as he struggled to fight back his own tears, "who _saw_ all of my imperfections, and found a way to look through them and…" he took in a deep breath before he could force out the word, "…and … _love_ me anyway." Steeling himself once more against the agony he held in his heart, Erik spoke, a bit more sharply, "Not once did I doubt your fidelity."

A searing dagger piercing her heart, the tears streamed down her face as she struggled to respond. "I _told_ you, Erik. I thought…you were _dead_." Annie could not speak for a moment as she braced herself against the painful memories of that torturous time in her life. "I never heard from you," she stammered, through hitched breaths. "Once you left Monaco, I had no idea what had happened to you. Letter after letter I wrote, planning to send them to you one day, as soon as you sent your address, but you never wrote."

"So because I was unable to send you word," he spat, forcing himself not to be moved by her tears, "you decided I was dead?"

"No," she shook her head, not looking at him. "Not then. But I was worried you had forgotten me. I had even planned to go to Persia, to look for you myself, convinced that finding you in the arms of another woman, would be better than not knowing."

Erik stared at her in disbelief, incredulous that she might have thought for even a moment that he could have strayed and horrified at the thought of the danger she had been willing to risk to find out for sure. But then her sobs grew louder as she crossed to a wooden crate in the corner of the chamber, bending over it briefly.

"I did not think you were dead," she explained, walking back over to him with a package in her hand "until I received this."

In her hands, Annie held a brown paper box that had obviously been sent through the mail. She shoved it into his hands, and turned away, crossing over to the edge of the lake where she fell to the floor, weeping.

Erik watched Annie a moment, fighting the burgeoning urge to take her in his arms and comfort her. She looked so frail—so broken—and he felt his heart swell, as it had so many times before, with the desire to protect her from all pain. But suddenly, it was not his place. So swallowing hard, Erik turned his attention to the box.

Examining the label, he saw that it was addressed to Antoinette Laramie, and apprehension rose in his chest, when he noticed the package had been marked as originating in Persia. Taking a deep breath, he held it in one hand, lifting the lid with the other. His mouth gaped in horror as he lifted out its grisly contents, a small white card fluttering to the ground.

Hair—human hair—long, black, and tangled—rested inside. It was not hard for Erik to deduce exactly where the hair had come from, that moment when the shah had him shorn and tossed into a cage playing out vividly in his mind. But then he saw another vision—an image of Annie opening this box, probably thinking that at long last he had written her, only to be confronted by a parcel full of his hair.

Erik took in a shaky breath, trying to push the painful image from his mind as he placed the hair back in the box and knelt down to pick up the small card that had landed on the ground. It was crumpled and worn, and the ink on the message had been splotched in places where it appeared tears had fallen. But it had not been obscured so much that that Erik was unable to read the words—the wicked, malicious, deceitful lie with which Annie had been greeted when she opened the package.

 _Erik is dead._

His stomach churned at the thought of her reading this note, and for the second time in his life, he found himself wishing he could commit murder again—over and over again—for the pain the shah had caused Annie.

 _His_ Annie. No longer his…

He looked toward the lake, where she still sat, hunched over, weeping, and he finally felt the true weight of the manner in which he had been treating her. He had suffered these past two years, yes, but she had obviously suffered too. Her personal agony was as clear as the tears that streamed from her eyes. There were so many questions—so many things he did not know. But he did know that regardless of anything that had happened, she was still his Annie. She would always be his Annie. And the torment she was feeling right now was entirely his fault.

Rising slowly to his feet, he quietly approached and knelt down behind her, gently gasping her shoulders in his hands. When he felt her instinctively lean back to rest her weight against his chest, he put his mouth next to her ear and whispered, "Annie, I'm so sorry. The shah was an evil, _evil_ man—sick and twisted—who only took pleasure in tormenting others. He kept us apart for the sole purpose of making me suffer, and his greatest sin is that he caused you to suffer too. But he is gone now, Annie," Erik closed his eyes and brushed his unmarred cheek tenderly against hers, making his voice even softer as he murmured, "…and _I_ am here."

Intoxicated by his nearness, Annie slowly turned her head, and onyx eyes once again locked with gold. Lifting her fingers to stroke his cheek, the longing and the yearning they had both felt for the past three years threatened to overwhelm. Their heads drew together slowly, each of them aching for a blessed, binding kiss, which would cause them to melt into one another, the years between them forgotten as if no more than a dream. Breathless and trembling, their lips were barely a whisper apart when realization struck Annie, pulling her out of that spellbound moment and making her turn away.

"But, Erik," she said tearfully, "I _am_ married."

Erik immediately released his hold on her, and fell back on his haunches in defeat. Placing his hand on his forehead, to try to stave off the sharp pains shooting through his temple, he closed his eyes.

Annie. _His_ Annie. No longer his…

Rationalize it all he might, the truth was clear. Regardless of the pain—regardless of shock and sadness she must have felt when she opened that box—she had found a way to move on. She had sworn her faith to another—a faith that she had once promised him—and despite the fact that he was now free and had returned to claim her, she was simply no longer his to claim. The shah had killed him that day in the dungeons sure as if _he_ had been the one to thrust _his_ dagger through Erik's heart. It might have been a kinder fate, because though he had survived for more than two additional years, Erik now knew his life was lost. He might as well have jumped into the lake and allowed the icy water claim his last, wretched breath, as he had been contemplating before Annie had arrived. What good was the breath in his body when he knew that his heart could no longer go on beating?

"You are married," he sighed at last, resignation and misery darkening his voice. And with one last, yearning look at the light of his life, Erik rose to go.

Annie knew she should let him walk out of that chamber—that she should let him go, never to see him again. For she understood that if he left her now, he would not return—allowing her to live the life she'd chosen with no more interference from him. But as she watched him take his first steps away from her she could not breathe.

Rising to her feet, she launched herself at him and stopped his progress by flinging her arms around his back. "NO!" she screamed, the hysteria she felt inside palpable in her voice. "No, you cannot leave me ever again. I cannot lose you again. I could not bear it." Her sobs spilled out onto his shoulder, as she held on to him for dear life. "Please," she begged, "I could not live through losing you again."

Despite the fact that he knew it was insanity, Erik wrapped his arms around her, clutching her to him and burying his face in her hair. "I could not leave you, my angel," he murmured back, feeling her tears soak through his coat, baptizing him with her sorrow, cleansing him with her love. "I would rather die than be away from you for another moment."

"Stay with me, Erik," she whispered again and again, crushing him to her as he lifted her off the ground with the strength of his embrace. "Promise you'll stay with me."

"I'll never leave you, Annie," he swore a solemn oath. "I will never leave your side."

* * *

"I must go, Erik," Annie told him later, much later, when the tides had lifted and their tears had all been spent. Erik lounged beside her, as they looked out at the lake, using his thumb to trace small circles on her palm while she rested her head on his shoulder and curled a lock of his hair absently around her finger, as she had done so many times since they were children. "Surely Giles must already be wondering where I am."

"Yes," Erik immediately dropped her hand, and she could feel his whole body stiffen, as he responded coldly, "we would not want to keep your _husband_ waiting."

Annie looked at him pleadingly, and he turned away, saying, "I'm sorry, Annie. Of course you must go home to your daughter."

"Yes," she nodded, relieved to be diverting the attention away from Giles, "Meg will surely be getting hungry."

Erik simply swallowed hard and didn't say anything, the thought of her having given birth to another man's child still a bit too much for him to contemplate.

"The furs are still here, Erik," Annie added awkwardly, as she rose to her feet, the memory of the last night they spent on those furs bringing heat to her cheeks. "They're a little dusty…"

"They are far better than what I have been sleeping on these past two years," Erik informed her. "They will be fine."

"You will have to tell me all of what you suffered in Persia," Annie said, her voice threatening tears as she imagined atrocities that Erik knew could not possibly begin to approach the horror of his actual situation.

"You may not want to know…" he responded.

"I do," she told him in no uncertain terms. "I want every moment of those years back."

Erik looked at her—her eyes glistening, her lips quivering from the effort she was making to be strong. His brave little angel, he thought to himself, as he rose to his feet and promised, "Then I shall tell you, my lady. But it is a story for another time."

Annie closed her eyes and nodded, "Fair enough."

"Will I see you tomorrow?" Erik asked her, knowing they had said all there was to say for tonight.

"Of course," Annie vowed. "I _will_ be back."

"I will be here," Erik smirked, a little chuckle playing at his lips at the twisted humor of the situation. Such a long journey out of Persia, only to once more be spending his time alone in the dark.

Words failing her, Annie reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly as she fought back tears. "Until tomorrow…Erik," she forced herself to say, as she turned to leave the chamber.

Erik stood in his spot and watched her go. "Until tomorrow…my Annie," he called, his voice trailing off as he uttered his final words. It was not until she had been gone from sight for some time that he noticed the scrap of fabric that he held in his hand. Looking down, he found the mask that Yasmin had made him. She must have found it in Box 5, lying on the floor from when he had foolishly torn it off his face. She'd had it with her all along—but true to the singularity of her nature—she'd had no desire for him to cover his deformity, always caring so much more about the man he was inside than the features he showed to the world.

Shaking his head forlornly, Erik suddenly felt completely spent. Walking over to the furs, he removed his frock coat, laying it on the ground beside them as he slipped inside. Tucked between the cozy beddings, so many images swirled in his mind. Buying them with Annie in the marketplace where they had performed in Toulouse—the many nights she had curled up in his arms when they were living in their wooded cave—the last night they had spent together, making love again and again, desperate to express with their bodies the passions they had always felt in their hearts. He had never spent a night in these furs without her, and despite their inherent warmth, Erik found that he was cold. Again he gave a mirthless chuckle as the cruel irony of his life consumed him. He had traveled all the way from Persia, and spent the evening with an angel, yet he still had not been able to find his way out of hell.

 **AN: Oh poor Erik-the Angel in Hell. And Annie-knowing she should have let him go, but knowing she could never possibly survive losing him twice. So sad...**


	79. Chapter 79

CH 79

"And again, Ladies!" Annie snapped with a crack of her baton. She did not usually like using the bothersome stick, but the ballerinas certainly seemed in need of extra discipline today. "Five, six, seven!"

The musicians began at the start of the song, and the dancers came in perfectly on their cue as they had so many times before, but still, their ballet mistress was not satisfied.

"No, no, _no_!" she bellowed, cutting off the music with another sharp crack of her cane. "Your entrances were sloppy!" she complained, making the girls cast down their eyes for fear of incurring even more of the ballet mistress's wrath. "And your arabesques were a disgrace. Is this the thanks I get for allowing you to break rehearsal early yesterday?"

"Madame Giry," she heard her husband call from where he stood beneath Box 5, watching the maintenance men work on the curtain. "May I have a word with you?"

Taking a deep breath and gritting her teeth together, Annie addressed the girls. "You have five minutes. I suggest you use them to go over the routine in your head, so that when we resume, you look more like dancers and less like… _buffons_!"

Gracelessly stomping over to her husband, she demanded in a loud whisper, " _Must_ you call me that?"

His eyes narrowed in confusion, he asked, "Call you what?"

"Madame Giry!" she spat. "For heaven's sake, Giles, as much as they act like it, they are not children! They know that my name is Antoinette!"

"Is not Giry also your name?"

The stricken expression in her husband's usually bright blue eyes was enough to jolt Annie temporarily out of her foul mood. He did not deserve this—the dancers did not deserve this. But Annie could not help herself. Not being able to get to Erik, when she knew he was so close, was driving her to distraction. She had hoped to have been able to give the girls a long lunch break by now, which would have allowed her to slip away to the underground chamber and see Erik. She had to see again, with her own two eyes that he was real—and not some trumped up figment of her imagination. The fact that she was stuck rehearsing ballerinas who had already grown complacent in their routines, because the maintenance men could not move faster to get out of Box 5 was maddening. And Annie knew she was taking it out on everyone around her.

"I am sorry, Giles," Annie said, looking down and trying to get a hold of her volatile emotions. "Of course it is my name—and it is an honor to bear. What did you wish to speak with me about?"

"Do you think," Giles began, a bit of hesitation in his voice, "that perhaps you are being a bit harsh on them? From my vantage point, they seem to be doing everything you ask."

Annie felt her cheeks grow hot and clenched her jaw, but took a deep breath to steady her temper before saying, "Well, perhaps if I didn't have to work with the incessant _noise_ from the maintenance crew," she gestured toward the men working in Box 5, "I would be a bit more forgiving."

"I am sorry, Antoinette," Giles told her sympathetically, "but there was more structural damage to the box than I had realized last night. The men are making repairs to the facade—hopefully they will be done shortly."

When Annie said nothing, and only nodded in response, Giles gently placed his hands on her upper arms, saying, "Do you think perhaps you are overtired? You _were_ here rather late last night, and you tossed and turned all night. Maybe you should give the girls the rest of the day off and come home with me to rest?"

He was being so kind, so sensitive, so considerate of her feelings, but right at that moment, going home with Giles was the last thing she wanted. "Would you have been so quick to give Madame Delacroix the day off?" Annie snapped, stepping back to pull roughly out of his hold. "We have a production to put on, Giles. And it is _my_ responsibility to make certain the dancers are ready. And they are _not_ yet ready. Not according to _my_ standards!"

"Yes Annie," Giles said softly, perplexed by his wife's irritability. "You know best."

Without another word, Annie turned on her heel and returned to the stage. With another crack of her unforgiving baton, she exclaimed, "Alright, Ladies, break over! Time to get back to work. From the beginning…"

* * *

 _Erik was kneeling behind Annie, her precious weight leaning back against his chest. His cheek was softly nuzzling hers as he whispered breathlessly in her ear, "I am here." When she turned to him, he gazed into her deep, brown eyes, and could not deny the urge he felt to claim her as his own._

 _Slowly his lips descended, parting slightly before he fit them together with hers. She accepted him eagerly, placing her hand against the back of his head to pull him even closer. Erik swallowed her every sigh and moan, drinking in her delicious fragrance, as his tongue explored the sweet wine of her mouth. Tangling his fingers in her ebony waves, he delighted in their silken softness, relishing the way her body pressed so tightly against his.  
The passions he had been forced to deny for so long raged within him, and he gently laid her down on the loamy ground, resting his weight upon her, as he continued to kiss her hungrily. When he finally pulled back to gaze lovingly into her eyes, Annie smiled at him, reaching forward to stroke his cheek. Turning his head to grace her fingertips with a gentle nibble, something shiny glinted in the candle's glow. Erik paused to inspect it further, and found a wedding ring, made of diamond and gold, gracing the fourth finger of her left hand—and Erik had not been the one to place it there._

 _"_ _No," he muttered, shaking his head as he looked back at Annie's face. "No."_

 _Annie gazed at back at him, with tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Erik," she wept as she slowly began to fade away. "I'm so sorry."_

Erik jolted awake with a gasp on his lips and beads of sweat on his forehead. The cool misty air and the gurgling of the lake reminded him instantly that he was no longer in Persia, but lying alone in the furs he had once shared with Annie, he was once more surrounded in darkness. Even in his dreams, his beloved angel could not be his.

Erik sat up and buried his face in his hands, wishing he could dull the throbbing ache that resided within his chest. He knew, however, that it was not a physical ailment that plagued him, but rather the jagged shards of his broken heart.

Annie was married to another man.

Tossing the furs off to the side, Erik rose to his feet, pacing the floor and raking his hands through his hair in frustration! How could this have happened? They had had such dreams—such hopes for their future together. They had promised each other their love, their lives—their hearts and their souls. How could she have forgotten all of that and spoken vows with another man?

Erik knew it was the shah's fault—that twisted miscreant who told her he was dead. He'd seen the box full of his ill-gotten hair. He'd held the cruel missive announcing his demise—seen her grief archived in the splatters of tears still smudging the ink. He knew she truly believed that he'd been deceased. But that still did not explain _why_ she'd married Giry.

Annie's own father had died when she had been at a tender age, leaving her mother a widow. Out of desperation to provide for her young daughter, Clarice Laramie had married a brutal man who had beaten her into an early grave. Annie had seen first hand the horrors that union had wrought, and she had sworn she'd never wanted a husband. _But Erik…I've always wanted to be yours_ she told him on the night she'd agreed to become his wife, before throwing her arms around him and pledging her eternal love with a kiss.

But now she was no longer his. The ring on her finger and the babe in her arms proved, indisputably, that she belonged to another. And if she had agreed to marry him…

She must love him too.

A vague sense of nausea washed over Erik as he realized the undeniable truth. Annie would never have just married for convenience. For her to have made vows, she would have had to mean them. She would have had to _love_ him. But if she loved Giry enough to marry him and bear him a child, why had she not simply let Erik leave last night?

 _You cannot leave me ever again. I could not bear it. I could not live through losing you again._

That had been her plea, as she held him tightly, clutching him close to her, as if he were her only lifeline in the midst of a stormy sea. But she _had_ a life—a husband and child, who surely meant so much more to her than he could ever hope to mean.

 _Stay with me, Erik_. _Promise you'll stay..._

And though he knew he could not have her—that she belonged to another man—he made the vow to stay always by her side—because he knew he could not bear to live any longer without her.

"This makes no sense!" he roared into the mists, shutting his eyes futilely to try to block out the frustrations that surrounded him. Heaving for air as he once again opened his eyes, something long and cylindrical caught his eye in the corner of the shadowy chamber. Inching over curiously, he grasped the strange object in his hand, only to find that it was the walking stick he had carved for Annie when she had been too afraid to accept his help after her stepfather's attack. Oh how it had stung when she had shut him out, but he would never forget that moment when her walls finally crashed down and she clung to him for comfort. That had been the first night she'd ever slept in his arms, and her softness and her warmth had given Erik his very first taste of heaven.

Glancing down the length of the walking stick, Erik found that it was protruding out of the wooden crate from which Annie had lifted the cruel parcel. The years in Persia having accustomed his eyes well to seeing in very little light, he reached inside the box and lifted out the small black comb he had given her on their first Christmas. "She kept it," he muttered, as he recalled how their lips had touched for the very first time that night beneath a sprig of mistletoe. Erik felt his heart begin to clench when he saw the pieces of dried up rose petals, the black ribbon, the well worn pair of ballet shoes, tied together carefully with their pink ribbons. She had kept every trinket, every tiny bauble he had ever given her, and all of them had been placed lovingly in the box.

Continuing his search, Erik lifted out a stack of letters. Tied together in a small bundle were the ones that he had sent to her—the envelopes addressed in his own spidery script. But a much larger pile had not been addressed—were not in envelopes at all—and were written in Annie's own hand.

 _My Dearest Erik,_ he read when he unfolded the first piece of delicate parchment. _As I write this, I know you are making your journey to Persia. I am excited for the good fortune you will certainly find there—and for what it will mean for our future. Finally, you will feel as if you have accomplished enough that you can come home to marry me—even though I have felt you were more than man enough for that job all along._

Erik swallowed hard as he read her words. How foolish he had been to think he needed to go away and become a rich man in order to give her what she needed. Her love had been the greatest treasure he'd ever possessed, and he had lost it—squandered it away in the name of building their future—a future they would now never have.

Shaking his head, he unfolded another epistle and continued reading.

 _The nights are terribly cold without you, Erik, and the mattress on my bed could never be a match for the comfort of your embrace. I lie awake at night and I wonder what must be preventing you from writing. Surely you must have reached Persia by now…_

His lips drawing together tight in a thin line as he recalled just exactly what it had been that had kept him from writing, Erik opened another letter.

 _It has been months now, Erik, past the time I would have expected word of your arrival in Persia. I know that you must be busy, and that things are very different there. Giles has been very kind, listening to my worries about you. He told me about the shah—and how he monitors letters coming in and out of Persia. He assured me that is probably why you have not written. But still…I cannot help but wonder—in my weaker moments—if, perhaps, you have forgotten me…_

Erik felt a dagger pierce his heart. "Could you have really believed, Annie," he questioned out-loud, though there was no one there to listen, "that for a moment I could have forgotten you?" But then he recalled the months when the drugs had addled his mind so much that he could barely remember his own name—so consumed by needing another drink of the Arak.

 _Giles has given me the name of a guard he met on a business trip to Persia as a way that I might be able to get I touch with you._ Erik read as he continued on with the letter. _I will be sending him a letter to deliver to you in person. I am worried, Erik. I am so afraid that you have been hurt in some way—I almost welcome the news that you have simply lost interest in me. For even though my heart remains true to you alone, the idea that some harm might have come to you is far, far worse than the thought that you might have fallen out of love with me._

"That could never, ever have happened," Erik swore to the page, as he felt tears begin to sting his eyes. "My love for you is the only thing that kept me alive."

Picking up yet another letter, he read, _Giles has agreed to accompany me to Persia, Erik. I have to come find you. Even after sending the letter to Mr. Emandar, I have not had any word for you. I am beginning to grow frantic, Erik. Certainly, you could never mean to be so cruel as to simply ignore me, and let my imagination run wild with the idea that you had found someone else. But the alternative is even worse—that something_ has _happened to you, and, Erik, if that is true, I will move heaven and earth to find you. I never should have let you go alone._

Erik shook his head, thanking heaven that at least that torture had not, in fact, come to pass. If Annie had come to Persia—if the shah had gotten his hands on her… Erik could not even begin to imagine the horror.

But he did notice another thing. Twice now, Annie had mentioned Giry's name. Had they joined forces on account of his cause? Had _he_ somehow been responsible for bringing them together?

The next letter he chose was dated months later. _I smiled today, Erik,_ it began, and he realized this must have been written after Annie had been falsely informed of his death. _I am sorry. I hope you do not find it a terrible betrayal that I indulged in a brief moment of amusement. I had been convinced that I would never smile again after losing you. But sometimes Giles is just so—ridiculous—that I simply could not help myself._

Erik's eyes narrowed a bit at the mention of the manager yet again—however her certainly could not disagree with Annie's assessment of his character. Ridiculous was certainly a word that came to mind when he thought of Giry… But pushing him aside, Erik continued reading.

 _The expression felt entirely foreign—I spend most of my days thinking only of when I can next slip away down here to the chamber, so that I can feel close to you. I hear your voice in the rippling of the lake, I feel your arms when I wrap the furs around me. Everything reminds me so much of you, my dearest love, that if I close my eyes, I can almost imagine you are with me. In my mind's eye I can see your crooked smile—the wicked glint you got in your eyes when you were intent on teasing me. I can feel your gentle hands caress me—your lips teasing me to greater and greater heights of pleasure._

 _But when I open my eyes, Erik, cruel reality squeezes the air from my lungs, suffocating me and bereaving me of breath when it reminds me that you are gone—that I will never see you again. At those moments I barely have it within me to stand, Erik. How will I ever find the strength to go on living without you?_

 _Giles has been a dutiful friend, making certain that I eat, and insisting that I leave the opera house—at least once a day—to take a meal with him on the bench outside. He says the fresh air is good for my health—that I need the sunshine. But he is wrong, Erik. All I really need—all I have ever needed—is you. And I shall never have you again. What good is food, when all it does is force me to go on living? At least if I died, I could be with you._

"No," Erik muttered, feeling as if he would be ill. To think of Annie in such a depth of despair was tearing him apart inside. Had she truly wanted to die so that she could join him in eternal slumber? Had she truly preferred that fate to the thought of living without him? How could she ever dream such a thing? Why would she ever want to simply let herself die?

 _You wanted to die too,_ a voice whispered inside Erik's head, _when you believed you would never see her again._

The thought of Annie, broken, hurting—and all because of him—was far too much for Erik to bear. He thought of how Yasmin had urged him to write to her—to tell her what was going on, but he had been such a fool. He would give anything to take back those years—to never have left her alone—to have written her when he had the chance. But Erik was not strong enough to turn back time, and now— _now_ —it was too late.

More letters—so many more letters he read, that spoke of the insufferable agony Annie felt over his untimely death. But little by little Erik found that there were more references to Giles Giry—and the temporary easiness she felt in her heart when she was around him. It soon became clear to him that Giry had been very calculating and opportunistic in winning Annie's affections—pressuring her to love him because of the kindness he had shown in response to her fiancé's demise. It disappointed Erik to think that Annie would fall for his manipulations, but knowing well the heartbreak she had been suffering, he found that he could forgive. It hurt his heart when he saw that she wrote, in the letter before her wedding day, _I am only trying to have a little bit of happiness in my life, Erik. I hope you understand. If I thought there was a chance—even the slightest chance that I would ever see you again, I would wait for you forever, my love. Until the end of time…_

If he had somehow let her know…if he had only taken Yasmin's advice. Perhaps all of this suffering could have been avoided.

"Erik," he heard her whisper and he turned to see her entering the chamber, her arms heavy laden, the little lantern dangling from her fingers. Hurriedly tossing the letters back inside the box, he rushed to his feet to meet her.

"Annie…"

"Oh," she sighed, in what seemed like relief, a wide smile spreading over her face. "You're still here."

"I told you I would not leave you, Annie," he reminded her gently, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Where else would I be?"

"You do not know," Annie told him with an embarrassed chuckle, casting her eyes down toward the ground, "how many times in the past I would convince myself that I would find you if I traveled down to the lake—only to be disappointed."

Remembering the misery he had read in her letters, he used a finger to tip up her chin and assured her softly, "Never fear, my lady. I am here."

When Annie didn't respond, but only gazed at him with eyes rimmed with tears, Erik released her shoulders and took a step back.

"What is this?" he asked, gesturing to the supplies she was carrying, offering to take some of it off of her hands.

"I brought you some clothing, Erik," she told him, handing the bundle over to him. "And some food. You _must_ eat, Erik," she admonished. "You have grown far too thin."

Snickering to himself, as he placed the supplies on the floor, he said, "You are just like Yasmin."

Annie watched as he rummaged through the care package, a grin upon his face. "Who's Yasmin?" she asked, curiously.

"A slave girl I knew in Persia," Erik responded, finding the sandwich she made him and unwrapping it slowly. "She reminded me much of you—always concerned with my wellbeing. She even made me this mask," he added, taking a bite of his lunch.

"I see," Annie responded feeling ridiculous to note the pangs of jealousy that were teasing at her heart. So this slave girl was the one who could not sew in a straight enough line to craft Erik a decent mask. She would have to sew him one herself when she got home. "Were you _good_ friends with her, Erik?" she asked, wanting to know just how far their bonding had gone.

"Well, we did not marry and create a child together," he answered flippantly, sensing Annie's resentfulness, "but she did come visit me every day and force me to eat and kept me alive at a time when I was intent on dying."

Taken aback, Annie looked away in shame. He was right, of course. She had no business feeling envious that Erik had someone who cared for him in Persia, when she herself had married Giles. "Then it seems," she said quietly, "I have much for which to thank her."

As soon as Erik saw Annie's stricken expression, he berated himself for having been so unkind.

"So do I, Annie," he told her gently. "Especially since she never tired of hearing me talk about the beautiful ballerina who'd stolen my heart." When Annie once again met his eyes, a rosy blush spreading over her cheeks, Erik added, "She always encouraged me to write to you, you know…but I never did."

"Why didn't you, Erik?" Annie asked him, an almost frantic tone entering her voice. "One word from you would have changed _everything_."

Frustrated at himself once again, it was Erik's turn to look away. "I do not wish to speak much yet about Persia, Annie. It was a very dark time in my life. Suffice to say, I had finally become the monster that you always refused to see. Without your light, my soul was blackness. And though I breathed, I was dead inside."

Annie closed her eyes and inhaled a shaky breath. "Without you, Erik, I was also dead inside. Had it not been for Giles, I might not have been here when you came back. He picked me up when I was broken, and he held me together when my world had fallen apart around me."

Gritting his teeth against the obvious manipulations the manager had performed on Annie's emotions, Erik's eyes glowed with ire as he spat, "Then it appears I am much indebted to him as well…yet again."

Annie heaved a heavy sigh, knowing that Erik was far too raw to try to understand her relationship with Giles right now. "Erik I think I should go, before we both say things that are better left unsaid. Opening night is fast approaching and I…"

"…and _you_ are the _Mistress_ ," he interjected, a crooked grin spreading over the unmasked side of his face.

Feeling her heart start to flutter at the sight of that smile she loved so well, Annie nodded. "Yes, I am. And the ballerinas will be returning shortly from their break." Returning his smile, she promised, "I will be back, Erik."

Reaching out and squeezing her hand, Erik tried to ignore the electricity that jolted through his body when he touched her as he assured, "And do not fret, Annie, for I promise you, I _will_ be here." With a final glimpse of that smirk that rendered her breathless, Annie smiled at him as she turned and forced herself to go.

 **AN: Oh, Annie...temper, temper... And Erik, really, it wasn't like that! Giles would not manipulate a fly! But we all know that when Erik has made his mind up about something. . .**

 **Sigh...**


	80. Chapter 80

CH 80

Giles found Annie in the sewing room that night, after he had laid little Meg down to sleep. Pausing for a moment, he crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned his long body against the doorframe. Feeling a smirk lift the corner of his lips, he observed as Annie guided the material through her sewing machine. She was so methodical in her stitching—so meticulous—paying great attention to every detail, even muttering under her breath, "no more crooked seams." Giles took great delight to watch her as she focused so singularly on her task, but after taking in her beauty quietly for a while, his body began to remind him that he wouldn't be performing his duty as a husband if he didn't at least try to…distract her. She had been so stressed lately, as the new season drew near, that a good distraction might be exactly what she needed. And Annie generally reacted well to distractions—as long as they were the type that ended up in the bedroom.

Creeping toward her quietly, Giles's arms were around her before she ever knew he was there.

"Giles!" she exclaimed, flinching and pushing the material aside. "You frightened me!"

"I'm sorry, Darling," he murmured, leaning low to nuzzle her neck. "Can I make it up to you?"

"Giles…" she said, with mild annoyance.

"Come to bed, my love," he coaxed, allowing his hands to travel to the mounds of her breasts. "You've been working too hard lately. It's making you tense."

"I am tense," she snapped, feeling her skin crawl where Giles was touching her,

"because there is much yet to do for this production. I do not have time to just _waste_."

Immediately, Giles released her from his hold. "Well," he said, his voice cool and distant, "forgive me for wasting your time, then." Turning abruptly, he walked out the door.

"Giles!" Annie called after him, but he did not return. "Giles, that's not what I meant!" She considered going after him when he did not return, but what good would that do? She was tense—but he could never know the reason. How could she explain to him that Erik was not only alive but back, and living in the cellars beneath the opera house? There was no way he would take that well. Besides, what was the point? She was his wife—the mother of his child. This was her life, and she just had to accept that. It was a good life—a happy life. She had enjoyed being a wife and a mother up until…until…

Annie sighed, and shook her head in the hopes to clear it from the insane thoughts with which it continued to fill. Perhaps Giles was right. She was exhausted—maybe she should simply go to bed. She hadn't gotten much sleep the night before—surely that had contributed to her vicious temperament with the dancers and with her husband today. Yes, she decided, she would go to bed…

But reaching for the piece of white fabric she had shoved aside when Giles had arrived, she fit it back into her sewing machine.

…Just as soon as she finished this mask…

* * *

Erik paced back and forth along the shores of the lake in utter boredom. He had woken up feeling restless. Two years confined to the darkness of a Persian dungeon and now that he had won his freedom, here he was—confined again. He knew that he had promised Annie that he would be here, and he had no plans of leaving her— _ever_ —but surely she could not blame him if he simply had a look around the opera house—only to stretch his legs. She had said herself that she had duties to perform, since opening day was growing close. Surely it would be some time before she would be able to break away to see him.

Erik glided up the stairs, eager to find some distraction in Garnier's tunnels to keep him occupied until Annie would visit. As he wandered the tunnels, sounds from the other side of the walls drifted in here and there. A soprano was straining to practice her scales. Girls giggled convivially while walking through the halls. Pots and pans clanged together as the kitchen crew apparently cleaned up after breakfast and prepared for lunch. The members of the Palais Garnier were in full swing, never knowing that they were being watched, by a pair of glowing golden eyes.

Entering the passageway behind the managerial wing, Erik heard a male voice faintly humming from behind one of the walls. Orienting himself, Erik realized he was in the same spot he had been when he had terrified that horrible girl Babette, and sent her screaming down the hall. He was directly behind Giles Giry's office.

Inspecting the wall for a tell-tale seam, Erik quickly located the hidden panel, and carefully slid it aside. Peering into the room, he found Giry hunched over his desk, humming to himself absently as he worked.

Giry kept a comfortable, but tidy office. His long brown overcoat and hat were neatly hung on a coatrack in the corner. A pair of elegant chairs in the style of Louis XVI faced his desk on the opposite side, with a matching settee perched next to a mahogany liquor cabinet against one of the side walls. Giry's desk, also made of the deep red toned wood, seemed orderly, and uncluttered, adorned with only two framed photographs which soured Erik's mood the moment he saw them.

One was in an oval shaped frame, and it must have been taken on Giles and Annie's wedding day. Giles Giry looked like a high-class dandy, in Erik's opinion, dressed in a black wedding suit with a white tie and top hat on his head. Annie however, was the picture of elegance and grace, in a long, white, simple gown, and a thin veil that floated to the floor. Oh how he longed to have been the one to feel the satin of her dress beneath his hands, as he held her close for a dance, or lift the filmy gossamer away from her face to expose her lips for a sealing kiss. She should have been _his_ bride—his _wife_. But here he stared at the evidence of her union to another.

 _How must you have manipulated her, Giles Giry_ , Erik thought to himself, as his eyes sent daggers in the unsuspecting manager's direction, _to have convinced her to marry you._ And yet, when Erik continued to stare at the photograph, he could not help but recognize the faint smile that played at Annie's lips or the adoration with which her new husband gazed upon her. On the surface, it appeared to have been a happy occasion, which made Erik's eyes, as he stared once again at the manager, all the more lethal. Almost as if he could sense Erik's ire being directed toward him, Giles reached up and rubbed the back of his neck—the unseen arrows of his hidden assailant apparently having hit their mark.

Feeling rather disgruntled, Erik turned his attention to the other picture. If possible, this one was almost worse, for it was a family portrait. Annie was seated on a high backed formal chair, holding her beautiful child—the tiny girl with the bouncy golden curls—on her lap. The baby must have been about three months old, and already, she seemed a natural at smiling. Giles Giry knelt on the floor to their right, in that insufferable brown day suit that seemed to be his favorite, his own blonde curls twisting in every direction at once. He laughed as he extended his forefinger to his daughter—who was grasping on to it tightly. Erik had read once that most babies were born with a hearty grip, and he found himself wondering if perhaps she had pulled so hard that it hurt! When he felt a cruel smile beginning to wash over his face at the thought, Erik shook his head and focused on Annie.

In this picture, Annie was the one gazing at Giles, and Erik could not deny the look of sheer devotion on her face. His heart clenching in his chest, he had to admit she looked happy. The entire family of three looked happy together. _Was this your life, Annie?_ he contemplated sadly. _Happiness, smiles, laughter?_ A small part of Erik's mind was beginning question if perhaps Annie had not been manipulated at all, but had rather chosen to marry Giles Giry out of true affection for the man. But that part was easily silenced when a loud knock sounded at the door.

"Yes?" Giry called, looking up from his desk. "Please come in."

The door opened and a nervous looking man walked into the room, ringing his hands as he approached the desk. Erik recognized him as Claude Moncharmin—the buffoon manager who'd insisted that Annie be taken out of the lead role after Erik had revealed Babette as the loose-moraled whore that she was. Erik was sure he detected a quiet groan emanate from Giry's mouth as Moncharmin entered, that told him Annie's husband was not completely fond of his colleague. A wicked grin lifting up the corners of his mouth, Erik leaned against the wall as Moncharmin flounced down into one of the Louis XVI chairs. This was sure to be an interesting exchange.

"Ah, Claude," Giry began, folding his hands together on the desk. "What can I do for you?"

"When will the repairs be done in Box 5?" he asked abruptly, removing a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe beads of sweat of his brow.

"The repair men are making steady progress with the façade," Giles answered him calmly. "And the new curtain should be arriving shortly."

"The count was in this morning to look in on chorus rehearsal, and noticed that his box was in disarray," Moncharmin told him. "He expressed his concerns that his private box would not be available for opening night." Wiping more sweat from his brow, he leaned in and added, "He and his family are planning to attend, you know!"

"I had assumed so," Giles said, remaining calm. Erik noticed, however, that Giry sat back farther in his chair when his anxious partner had moved forward. And though he only had a view of the back of his head, he could tell that the man's jaw was set rather tightly. It was even clearer to Erik now that Giry's opinion of Moncharmin was not an altogether positive one. The man seemed to try Giry's patience. Erik noted that fact for future use. "Considering that the count is our principal donor, one would expect him to be there. That is why I had maintenance working most of yesterday fixing the damage to the façade. When the curtain arrives, it will be ready to hang. And I assure you, that will be _long_ before opening night. And then the Box will be locked for safe keeping until opening night."

"Thank you, Giles," Moncharmin responded in relief. "I just wanted to make certain that the box would be available for the count and his family—and that nothing had not fallen through the cracks since you will be leaving on your trip shortly."

"Don't worry, Claude," Giles said pleasantly. "I have everything under control." When the awkward man simply sat there and nodded, smiling a fitful smile, Giles prodded, "Claude, is there anything more you needed? I have to prepare for my trip."

"What?" he asked, startled at first by Giles's question, but quickly gathering his wits about him, he rose to his feet and said, "Oh, no, no. I should go…work to do…." Giry only nodded from behind his desk, as Moncharmin made his way toward the door. "Au revoir, Giles," Moncharmin said with a little wave, as he stepped out of the door.

"Au revoir," Giles said, shaking his head and adding under his breath, "you idiot," only after the door was closed.

Erik smirked as the exchange concluded, and he quietly slid the panel back in place. Giry was going away again on a business trip. He would have to discuss this with Annie and find out when the man would be returning. Certainly it would be before opening night, and a plan was forming in Erik's mind that would ensure the man an unwelcome reception.

Erik chuckled as he sauntered off, the thought of causing a little mischief for the man who had stolen everything from him bringing a spring to his step.

In his office, Giles felt a sudden chill, and shivered briefly. He had the distinct feeling that someone was watching, but turning to look over his shoulder, he could find no one there. Shaking his head, and blaming Moncharmin for his own sudden jitters, he turned back around and resumed his work.

* * *

Erik passed through the rest of the opera house, looking in on things as he went. The passages he traveled had remained unchanged in his absence, but the same could not be said for the other side. Though the outward grandeur of the building remained resplendent, the more hidden areas had become cluttered and abundant with props and costumes from seasons past. Though there did seem to be some evidence of orderly storage, many things appeared to have just been cast aside. When Erik spied a handsomely made gentleman's opera cape, simply lying in a heap on the floor, he decided to intervene. Furtively sliding the door sized hidden panel aside, he slipped inside the storage room and took the cloak, being certain to close off the passageway once he slid back behind the wall. Once there, he shook out the garment, to admire his acquisition. It was made out of jet-black wool, lined inside with steel gray satin. Lush black velvet trimmed the collar, and the shoulders were adorned with tiny black beads.

Finding it ridiculous to take such poor care of such a fine garment, Erik wrapped the cloak around himself, feeling that it would be the perfect thing to stave off the chill in the underground chamber during long, cold nights. Since he no longer had Annie beside him…

Taking a deep breath and shaking his head, to clear that depressing thought from his mind Erik continued on his way.

When Erik heard music wafting from behind the ballet practice room, he could not resist taking a peek inside. He knew that he was supposed to be taking this walk to keep his mind off of Annie until he could see her when she came down to the chamber later in the day, but he knew that effort was futile. Annie would never be far from his thoughts—since she resided in his heart always.

Pulling aside the panel, Erik stood behind one of the mirrored walls in which the ballerinas checked their form while they rehearsed. A large group of girls was lined up at the back of the room, running through the movements of their routine, but Annie stood near the front, watching as a dancer, who Erik guessed was the prima ballerina, danced alone.

"That's better, Reneé," Annie encouraged the girl when her dance was over, walking over so that she could look her in the eye. "Technically, you were perfect. But I'm still not sure you quite have the emotion of the dance down."

"I don't understand, Madame Giry," the young girl answered, looking a bit perplexed.

"Well," Annie started, "this dance essentially summarizes the entire opera—and it contains all of the emotions. The crippling sorrow Penelope feels at not knowing whether her love is dead or alive; the pull she feels toward the beggar before she realizes that he is, in fact, her lost love; the utter joy and surrender she knows when he makes his triumphant return. Your dance must incorporate all of that in order to be more than technically perfect—in order to be sublime.

"Madame Giry," the girl answered, "I understand what you are saying, but I don't know if I understand _how_ to do that. Can you show me?"

"Alright, Reneé," Annie nodded, as she traded places with the girl in front of the mirror.

Erik watched as Annie positioned her body to begin the dance. Clad once again all in black, with her hair held back in a bun, she was the picture of grace and elegance. And as the music started and she began the delicate motions of the dance, Erik felt his throat run dry.

Erik had never been able to see Annie perform as prima ballerina, and it was one of his greatest regrets. For now, as she glided her way through the motions of the routine, she truly brought to life the story of the dance. He felt her sorrow acutely as the dance began, and she was mourning the possible death of her one true love. Erik's heart bled as she leaned her body forward and rested her forehead against the glass. He touched fingers against hers on the other side of the mirror, and though it only lasted for a second, he thought that he would weep.

The tension in her movements during the seductive section of the song made the blood hum in Erik's veins. He ached to pull her into his arms and ravish her in a way that would cause her to cry out her pleasures with a lusty yell, only to make her scream again and again as the night wore on.

But the joy that shone through her glittering eyes as she reached the moment when Penelope's lover makes his triumphant return was what really touched Erik's heart. Every leap, every turn, exuded merriment and delight at having her lost love returned—and if Erik did not know better, he might have thought it was no longer Penelope dancing for Ulisse, but Annie dancing for _him_.

Her dance ended with Annie on her knees, her arms upraised to the love she was welcoming home. As her body heaved for air and little droplets of perspiration beaded on her face and chest, Annie was exquisite. Caught up in the moment, Erik could not help whispering "Brava, my angel," in a way that he knew only she would hear.

Annie's eyes opened in surprise at the sound of his praise, having gotten used to him no longer being there when she danced. But realizing quickly what had happened, she fixed her gaze on the mirror. And somehow managing to meet his eyes through the glass, she smiled—and took his breath away.

 **AN: Oh Annie, of course, you should know that your angel is _always_ with you! Well...when he isn't off pillaging in the opera house, that is. And there is definitely trouble in paradise in the Giry household. Poor Giles-no idea that Erik is back. **


	81. Chapter 81

CH 81

"I thought you promised that you were going to be right here, Erik," Annie said with a smirk on her face as she rounded the corner into the underground chamber, having been charmed by his praise from behind the mirror.

"I am here," Erik responded, looking up from the project on which he had been working. "I simply stepped out for a little walk—to stretch my legs."

"And apparently," she commented, taking note of the cloak wrapped around his shoulders and the pile of wood he was kneeling over on the floor, "to acquire some supplies?"

Erik brushed his hands on his trouser legs as he rose to his feet. "I found this lovely old mantle," he told her, holding his arms out and turning in a slow circle to display the cloak that swirled around his ankles, "in a storage room not even on a hanger or in a box—it was just heaped in a crumbled mess on the floor."

"Mozart's Don Giovanni," Annie said simply.

"Pardon?" Erik asked, his eyes crinkled in confusion.

"It was from when we staged Don Giovanni," she informed him. "It was the cloak worn by the masked scoundrel himself."

"Well then," Erik retorted, glancing down at the cape, "that would explain why I felt kindred with the item."

Smiling and rolling her eyes, she lightly swatted his shoulder as she crouched down by the wooden planks on the ground. "What is all this, Erik?" she asked.

"Some scrap wood I found in my travels" he told her, looking at his treasures over her shoulder, "—again, discarded and unused."

"The set builders will be looking for these next time they need to create a new world on the stage," Annie warned him.

"Ah," Erik said, dismissing the notion. "But if they don't know where to look, they certainly won't find it down here."

"No they won't," Annie agreed, shaking her head. "They probably won't find the tools you procured for yourself either," she commented, noticing the hammer, saw, and nails that had been laid out beside the boards. Looking back up at Erik, she asked, "What are you planning on building?"

"A boat," Erik said proudly, kneeling down next to Annie.

"A boat?" Annie asked in surprise, looking over at him. "Whatever for?"

"For exploring of course," Erik said with a glint in his eye that made her heart skip a beat. "When I was still in Monaco, Charles and I spent so many hours discussing this building. There are secrets beyond the lake that we haven't even discovered yet."

"Charles was so fond of you, Erik," Annie said, remembering how the kindly old architect spoke so highly of him.

Erik chuckled and said, "You act as if you've _met_ Charles."

Annie's eyes darkened a bit, and she looked away before saying, "I have."

Erik looked at her, his eyes wide with shock. "You have?" he asked, incredulous. "When?"

Taking a deep breath, Annie told him, "After I got the news that you were…dead…" she paused after choking out the word. "I was despondent. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. All I could do was stare into the fire, holding your… _hair_ ," she faltered a bit on the word, just the memory bringing her great pain _"_ …close to my heart in disbelief that I would never see you again."

"Annie," Erik whispered, taking her hands gently in his, his heart breaking at the thought of her suffering such agony.  
"Giles had taken me away to his home—to give me some time to grieve in peace. He got to see first hand how lost I was without you, Erik," she told him, gazing directly into his eyes. "He tried his best to help me, but he thought that perhaps if I had someone who knew you also—who could truly share my grief—that it would help even more. I had told him all about you, Erik—including the fact that you had been working with Charles Garnier. So he arranged for him to visit."

"I…see," Erik said, surprised by the compassion Giry had shown in helping Annie grieve.

"We spoke for hours…" Annie told him. "About how we both missed you—about how we both l…" Annie's voice trailed off, unable, as she was, to make herself give voice to the word that had been resounding in her heart ever since Erik's return. She could not speak to him of love when she was married to another man. It was not right.

"Charles said he had gotten word that you had been killed in a construction accident," Annie informed him. "Erik, he was devastated. You must contact him—to let him know you are all right."

"I will, Annie," Erik assured her, though his face began to look somewhat uncomfortable. "But not…just yet. I need time to steady myself for that conversation."

Reading the discomfort in his eyes, Annie asked, "Erik, what did happen to detain you in Persia? Why could you not come home?"

Erik felt a pounding in his chest at Annie's words. Of course it was a completely fair question—and he was a bit surprised, in fact, that it had taken her this long to ask it. But he did not want to talk about Persia—he did not want to taint her in any way with its darkness. And if she knew what he had become while he was under the shah's influence, would she still want him to be a part of her life? He had already lost her love—would he lose all of her if she knew the monster he had become?

"I…" he began, floundering for words, "I was imprisoned, Annie."

Annie's eyes widened in shock, and her voice rose an octave as she asked, "Imprisoned? Erik, whatever for?"

Erik released her hands only to run his own through his hair as he searched for a way to explain what had happened without outright lying to her. "I insulted him when I was in his employ. He had arranged for me to have…a gift to thank me for my service to him. But I…I told him that I wished to leave. I wanted nothing more than to come home to you, Annie," Erik said, looking into her eyes, pleading for her to understand. "He took great offense to that and had me thrown in the dungeon."

"For that?" Annie asked incredulously. "For simply wanting to go home?"

"For refusing his gift," Erik explained, hoping desperately that she would not ask what that gift was. "A gift from the shah is supposed to be received with great honor. When I refused it, I brought great shame to his name."

"So for the sake of his name," Annie retorted, too incensed to even care what the gift was at this point, "he tossed you in a dungeon and kept you locked up there for years?"

"Essentially, yes," Erik confirmed, nodding sadly. "His initial plan was to have me executed."

" _No,"_ Annie breathed, shaking her head—barely able to even contemplate such horror.

"But he quickly changed his mind," Erik added, looking away, "when he realized forcing me to go on living without you was a harsher form of torture."

Annie was silent for a moment, too horrified to speak a word, but then, she shot up off the ground and began to pace the floor. "I never should have let you go alone, Erik," she lamented, her voice thick with unshed tears. "I should have gone with you. To protect you."

"Annie no!" Erik exclaimed, rising to his feet and placing his hands on her shoulders. The idea of her stepping foot in Mazanderan made his blood run cold. "Persia is a place of unimaginable perversions. Women have no power there—they are not even thought of as people, only property. The shah—he was an evil, wicked, depraved man. There is nothing you could have done to stop him."

"I would have killed him for laying a hand on you," Annie said, her voice cold and resolute, her dark eyes blazing.

Suddenly, Erik was back in the gypsy tent, staring at the little girl with the bloody knife who had slain the evil master in order to save his life—a child of only twelve years who had carried within her the spirit of a giant. Many years had passed between that night and this one, yet Annie still possessed the same ferocity—the same fire—as she had so long ago. And in that moment, he had no doubt her words were true. She _would_ have killed the shah for his transgressions against Erik. She had always been an expert at saving his soul.

"Somebody already beat you to it," Erik informed her soberly, neglecting to mention that that someone had been him. "The shah is dead—murdered while he slept."

"Good," Annie proclaimed, her jaw set, steel glinting in her eyes. "I am glad to hear that he no longer roams the earth—I only wish I had been the one to destroy him for the way he treated you."

Erik gazed at Annie—still so fierce, still so loyal, with the protective instinct of a lioness. Reaching out, he stroked a single finger down her cheek. "I'm glad you weren't, Annie," he told her softly. "You need never to tarnish yourself with the likes of that wicked fiend. And like I said, he is gone—and Persia is no longer a part of my life."

"Thank God for that," Annie said, locking eyes with him, and realizing in that moment that

she never wanted to look away. She could gaze into those golden orbs forever and never tire of the sight.

But knowing that it simply could not be, Annie eventually did look down and say, "I've got something for you, Erik." Reaching into her pocket, she brought out a small bundle tied in brown paper and held it out for him.

As Erik busied himself untying the knot that held the parcel together, Annie explained, "I thought you might like a fresh start here in Paris, without constant reminders of your time in Persia."

Erik pushed aside the paper with which the gift had been wrapped and lifted out a new, expertly sewn mask. Made of fine white linen, not a stitch was out of place, and the seams were perfectly straight. Running his fingers admiringly over the rich material, he smiled as he said, "You always did make my masks with the utmost of care, Annie, even though you never wanted me to use them."

Annie swallowed hard, remembering the countless face covers she had fashioned for him through the years, only to force him to take them off the minute they entered their dwelling. "There was never any need for you to use them when you were at home with…" Annie's voice trailed off as she suddenly fought back a sob, as the realization hit he could never again be her home. Her husband and child must be her home now—they must be her life.

Pulling away, she looked to the floor as she told him, "I must go, Erik. Giles is leaving on a business trip tomorrow, and I have to make sure he is prepared."

"All right, Annie," Erik nodded, perceptive of her sudden shift in mood.

"I will be back tomorrow, Erik." she promised as she turned to go.

"I will be expecting you," he informed her. And as she disappeared into the distance, he once again stroked a loving finger down his new mask as he whispered under his breath, "I will be dreaming of nothing else."

* * *

Giles's movements grew faster and faster as he felt the sensations build to a peak within him. Releasing her name on a guttural growl, he thrust forward one final time and poured out his essence, finding his pleasure within his wife.

Opening his eyes to gaze down upon her loveliness, Giles was dismayed to see her eyes seem a thousand miles away.

"Antoinette," he asked gently, crashing back to earth from the heights of heaven he had just attained, "are you all right?"

"Of course, Giles," she answered forcing a smile to her face. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Giles tried to take comfort in her reassurance, but as he gazed upon Antoinette's beautiful smile, he could not help but notice that the contentment did not quite reach into her eyes.

Rolling over onto his side, he tenderly stroked her cheek. "You just seem a bit…" Giles searched for a word that would not offend, as so many seemed to do these days, "…preoccupied lately. Are you sure nothing is bothering you? You can tell me, remember?" he reminded her with a sheepish smile. "Honesty—even if it hurts."

 _Even if it hurts._ Annie looked at her husband, concern evident in his clear blue eyes, and she struggled for a moment with what to say. Giles had been so good to her—so supportive, so loving, so understanding of her every flaw. Would it truly be the right thing for her to be honest with him right now? Should she tell him that she had been distracted of late because the love she thought was lost had miraculously returned? Should she share that their very marriage felt somehow like a traitorous betrayal to the man who won her heart years ago? Should she confess that during their intimate moments, she wished that it were Erik's hands on her body, his lips melding with hers?

Erik had come between them once again, and the truth would not only hurt Giles. It would destroy him.

"Perhaps," Annie began, knowing in her heart that _none_ of this was right, "I am a bit down about your trip tomorrow." Taking Giles's hand in hers and gently bringing it to her lips, she added, "I will miss you."

"Antoinette," Giles said softly, leaning over to place a loving kiss on her forehead, "I won't be gone long. I'll be back to see your debut as ballet mistress on opening night."

"I know," she said, with a sheepish smile. "But I'll still miss you."

"I'll miss you too, dear wife," he said, leaning in for another gentle kiss. "And I love you."

"And I you, Giles," Annie said, simultaneously knowing it was true, but also, not enough.

"You're so tired, darling," Giles commented, when he saw his wife overcome with a prolonged yawn. He did not really want the night to end, but he always strove to put his wife's needs before his own. "Perhaps it would be best if you just closed your eyes and went to sleep."

"I think you are right, Giles," she nodded, groggily. And giving him one last kiss on the cheek, she rolled over, with her back to him, and whispered, "Goodnight, Giles."

"Goodnight, my love," he whispered back, as he wrapped an arm around her waist and held her while she drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Giles lay beside his wife, stroking her hair and listening to her breathing. Despite her assertions that nothing was wrong, he knew that something was not right in their marriage. Antoinette had been sullen and distant ever since they had started work on the new season—her first season after taking over as ballet mistress. It was a very stressful job, he knew, and being in a new position, nerves were bound to be an issue.

But recently, her anxiety level had greatly increased, and it was beginning to take a toll on their relationship. She was short and impatient with him, often preferring long nights in the office to the comforts of his arms. _Did I push her back to work too fast?_ he asked himself, afraid that perhaps his encouragement had caused her to agree to a work load she didn't really want. _Have I not been enough help with Meg?_ he wondered, trying to think if there were any other ways he could assist his wife in her parenting duties. _Do I simply displease her?_

All of these thoughts ran wildly through his mind, as he searched for a reason why her eyes didn't shine any longer when she looked at him, and why her kisses felt so cold. _We are back to the way we were before the daisies_ , Giles thought sadness filling his heart. Somehow—he knew _not_ how—a wedge had come between them, and it seemed to be driving them apart when all he ever wanted was to have and hold her close.

Gazing down upon his wife's slumbering body, Giles could not help but place another loving kiss upon her cheek. "Whatever is going on inside you, Antoinette," he whispered quietly in her ear. "I promise, we will make it better. I love you, my precious wife. From now until forever."

 **AN: Oh, poor Giles…Such a loving husband, but so far in the dark.** **L**


	82. Chapter 82

CH 82

The week leading up to opening night was a whirlwind for Annie, and though she'd promised Giles, as he had departed on his trip, that she would miss him, she barely had the time. The days were filled with endless rehearsals, polishing each routine until it was possibly better than perfect and coordinating endlessly with the music director to ensure a seamless flow between the dancers and the singers on stage. She massaged bruised egos among the ballet rats, and solved dire costume crises—often with her own needle and thread. But just when she'd feel the stress was about to overwhelm her, suddenly a quiet _Shhhhh, Angel, everything will be all right_ would be whispered in her ear, and she would smile, knowing he was there.

Whenever there was a brief respite in the craziness of the day, Annie found herself beneath the opera house with Erik. They would sit together, on the shores of the lake, Annie dangling her tired feet in the cool, soothing waters, talking about the events of the day. Erik would listen dutifully as she listed off all of her annoyances and little irritations, though she was sure he already knew them. Still, it calmed her to be able to complain, and she had to laugh when Erik would devise darkly comical ways to solve every one of her problems.

"Shall I kidnap the lot of them, Annie," Erik asked, referring to the violin section, who could never seem to get her dancers' lead-in quite right, "and toss every last one of them in the lake?"

"That might be far too much company for your antisocial soul, Erik," Annie snickered at the thought of the pompous musicians sputtering and splashing in the freezing cold water.

"A provocation I could most certainly tolerate if it meant I got to keep their violins," Erik remarked, the wicked sparkle in his eye making her heart beat faster.

But Annie's time with Erik was all too short—having to make certain to leave the building each day at a respectable hour to give Giselle some relief. Her evenings were spent caring for Meg, and playing with her daughter and Alain until it was time for them both to go to bed. After sharing a spot of hot tea with Giselle, both exhausted mothers quite ready for sleep themselves, Annie would retire to her chambers where her own private hell began.

For when she was lying alone in the bed she shared with Giles, her mind would wander to Erik, lying similarly alone on the cold hard ground of the subterranean chamber, with only their furs for comfort. That was when the guilt would hit. Another day had passed and she had hardly thought of her husband. True she had been busy—mind numbingly busy—but still she had made time for Erik. And it was hard to envision Giles's beautiful blue laughing eyes, when Erik's fiery golden orbs were consuming her soul.

 _This is wrong mother_ , she thought to herself, trying to push the image of Erik's face out of her mind. _This is so wrong_. She forced herself to think of the kindness Giles had shown her—of the way he adored her for the entire world to see. He was, quite frankly, the ideal husband—who cared for her and loved her without question. His easy laugh and glittering eyes, had truly brought warmth and sunshine into her life. But her good intentions be damned, it was simply Annie's nature to be drawn into the darkness, for when her eyes closed and she succumbed to sleep, her dark angel held her in his arms. His lips devoured her, and his fingers ran hot, smoldering trails across every inch of her body as he made love to her again and again, making her cry out wildly in her dreams. But when she would awaken in the middle of the night covered in sweat, she felt nothing but frustrated with herself for dreaming about Erik when she was committed to Giles.

Giles had been her salvation—holding on to her through her darkest hours and carrying her out into the light. They had shared a happy life together, filled with laughter, smiles, and genuine affection. But it was not enough, and Annie feared it would never be enough now that her true love was back. Erik was woven into the fabric of her very soul—as much a part of her as her own heart. She had been bereft of his love for so long, she truly wondered how much longer she would be able to go on depriving herself. She _had_ to, she knew, for the sake of her husband and child. And she truly wanted to do the right thing.

But what of her own heart?

Erik was the choice she had made so very long ago—they had been fused with a bond that could not be broken by distance or trial. Even when he was stolen from her, by the machinations of an evil, wicked man, the perception of his death had not been enough to completely cleanse her of her need for him. She had truly tried to move on, going so far as to marry the sweetest, kindest man to walk the face of the earth. But now what was hers had been returned. Was it truly the right thing to squander that gift, and go on as if the life she was living was not somehow a lie?

Perhaps she should have let Erik go when he had tried to leave on the night of his return, but even with all the turmoil she now felt in her heart, she still could not bear the thought of not having him near. The pain of knowing Erik was close and not being able to be with him, was far preferable to the agony of him being gone.

It seemed that all Annie could do was embrace the pain, as she resigned herself to the fact that she would be living the rest of her life torn between darkness and light—loving the light, but craving the darkness. Yes, she thought, as she tossed and turned trying to find the comfort that continued to elude her, this was her own personal version of hell.

* * *

Honoring a tradition that had held since the very first season, on opening day, Annie gave her dancers the morning off, so that they would be well rested and ready for the performance later that night. Never one to sleep late herself, however, Annie took the opportunity to steal away beneath the opera house. Things would be too hectic later, with all the preparations for the production, as well as Giles returning from his trip. And now that Erik was back, she simply could not go a day without seeing him.

She found him hunched over on the ground, working diligently on his boat that was already beginning to take shape. It was long and narrow, with a raised stern, reminiscent in shape to the gondolas in which they used to dream of traveling when they one day visited the city of Venice. Closing her eyes as she leaned against the wall, she could just about see them, traversing the narrow city canals, Erik enrobed in his newly acquired black cape as he steered their vessel with the help of a long wooden pole. Celestial music rang on the air and the savory aromas of the most delectable morsels teased at their senses as they gazed together up at the night sky and counted the stars.

"Annie," she heard Erik's voice breaking her out of her day dream, "You're here."

"Yes," she said, opening her eyes and shaking off the image in her mind in favor of the much more preferable one that was crouching on the ground before her. From where she stood, Annie could see that Erik's shirttails were hanging out of his trousers, his sleeves neatly rolled halfway up his arms. His topmost buttons had come undone, causing his shirt to fall loosely open to display the smooth planes of his collarbone jutting out from the concave hollow of his throat. His golden eyes peered out from behind the few strands of his raven hair that teased Annie by spilling forth from his ponytail and falling lazily over his mask. Swallowing hard to calm her heart that had suddenly begun beating faster, she added, "I'm here."

"I thought you would be busy, getting ready for the show tonight," he informed her, as he rose to his feet, rubbing his thighs to brush the dust off his palms.

"I will be, later," she admitted, walking toward him, "which is why I made sure to come see you now. I didn't want to let a day go by…."

A bashful smile spread over Annie's face as she looked down without finishing her sentence. Erik understood her meaning none-the-less. It seemed wrong to go twenty-four hours without seeing each other, since they had already been deprived of so many days together. And then, of course, there were the stolen nights…

"I am excited for your triumphant debut as ballet mistress tonight, Annie," Erik informed her. "I assure you mine will be the loudest applause when they announce your name."

"You are planning to attend tonight?" she asked, in surprise.

"Of course!" Erik replied, as if his intentions should have been quite obvious. "I have been watching you whip those pathetic ballet rats into shape daily since my return. How could I possibly miss the moment you were rewarded for your efforts?"

Annie smiled at his words which reminded her so much of his unwavering belief in her at the start of her career. She had long suspected that Erik _attended_ rehearsals every day, since there were moments when she could just _feel_ his eyes watching her from some hidden crevice known only to him. But except for that once, when his whispered praise had filled her ear, her suspicions had never been confirmed.

"Where will you be watching, Erik?" she asked. "We expect a full house tonight."

"Do not worry, Annie," he told her with a glint in his eye. "I will be there. And since I plan to attend the opera this evening," he added, "I have a favor to ask of you."

"Oh?" she questioned, giving her full attention to his request, "And what is that?"

"Well," he began, and Annie thought she detected the slightest blush in his exposed cheek before he walked over to the furs and reached for something in the shadows. "I was hoping to look the part of a gentleman tonight—even though I do not plan for anyone to see me," he added for clarification. "I have the fine attire you brought for me, Annie, and Don Giovanni's trusty cape, but what kind of gentleman attends the theater without a haircut and a shave?" He turned to walk back to where she stood, and Annie saw that he carried a pair of scissors and a shaving kit he must have procured from one of the dressing rooms. "I had planned to attend to my own grooming, but now that you're here," he paused a moment, swallowing against the lump in his throat, "I was wondering if you…would help."

Annie sucked in a shaky breath as Erik cast his gaze to the floor.

"I only thought it might go faster, but I can see that it was obviously a terrible idea," he said quietly shaking his head. "Forget I even asked…"

"Erik," Annie finally answered. "Of course I'll do it."

Erik followed Annie to the edge of the lake, where she knelt on the shore and gestured for him to do the same. Gracefully tucking his legs beneath him, Erik took a seat on the loamy ground in front of her.

With trembling fingers, Annie untied the ribbon that had contained his hair, and fanned it out before her, so that it lay loose halfway down his back. Annie had always loved running her fingers through his fine, silken tresses when they were younger, spending hours with his locks curled around her fingers as they gazed up at the stars at night. It was one of the reasons the shah's cruel deception had hit her so hard. Seeing the knotted, tangled remains of something that she had always held so dear had seemed harsh, undeniable evidence that her beloved Erik was gone.

Noting now the jagged ends and the uneven edges from where the shah rent Erik's hair from his head, she felt her heart clench with sorrow. "He was not gentle, Erik," Annie remarked somberly, as she ran her fingers gingerly along the mats that Erik had not been able to comb out on his own.

"He was never gentle, Annie," Erik responded darkly. "Not with me…not with anyone." When he heard Annie wince at his words, he realized just how difficult this favor truly must be for her. "Annie," he said, turning to look at her over his shoulder, "if this is too much for you, please do not worry. I can take care of it myself."

"Erik," Annie answered, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "Please let me do this."

Erik's gaze locked firm with hers for a moment more, before he finally turned his face back to the waters and allowed her to begin her task.

Using his comb to lift a section of his hair, Annie lined her scissors up with the edge and made her first cut. As his dark tresses fell to the ground, she saw memories from their childhood similarly slipping away. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks as she recalled running with him on the farm, pieces of straw sticking out of his hair from when she dropped an armful of hay on him in an unsuspecting moment. Or the rakish way he would peek out from behind the saucy strands that would fall over his eyes when he watched her dance in the market square. She remembered the nights that silken sea of black would both ground her and carry her off to worlds filled with intoxicating pleasure, as her fingers drowned within it in an effort to keep his lips locked firmly against hers. All of these moments and so many more that would never again be theirs faded away with every snip of her scissors, as his hair continued to fall.

His locks trimmed at last to rest neatly at the nape of his neck, Annie repositioned herself on his left side, arranging the shaving supplies on the ground beside her. If she thought it was difficult to cut his hair, shaving his face was even more of a torment, since now she could look in his eyes. His gazed over at her from beneath lowered lids, his eyes hazy from the delicate touches of her fingertips on his scalp. When Annie bent forward to dip the wood handled brush into the lake to dampen the bristles, Erik leaned in to inhale the fragrance of her hair, nuzzling her throat as he rested his hand on the small of her back to hold her firmly beside him.

"Erik," she gasped, her voice a shaky whisper, and he lifted his head to once again gaze wordlessly into her eyes. After a long moment, he turned his head to face the swirling waters, but he did not release her from his hold.

Annie used the brush to make slow circles in the shaving soap, creating a thick foamy lather. Closing his eyes, Erik let his head fall back to give her better access as she applied the creamy substance to the exposed side of his face, running the coated bristles down the length of his neck. She brought the razor to his skin, and carefully scraped it down his cheek, plunging the sharpened tool into the lake between swipes, to wash away the foam and stubble that had marred his chiseled jaw. Her breath came in hitched gasps, as she slid her blade down the graceful span of his throat, each stroke revealing more and more of his tempting skin. When she was done at last and her fingers replaced the stainless steel as they wiped away the excess soap, trailing tender caresses across his freshly smoothed flesh, Erik groaned as he twisted his torso to face her, pressing her midsection close against his, his desire for her plain.

His eyes glowed as he asked her huskily, "How do I look, Annie?"

"Beautiful," she sighed, her hands now cupping both of his cheeks, her voice a ragged whisper. "So incredibly beautiful."

With a whimper, Erik drew Annie's face a breath away from his. "Annie, I need you," he moaned, as he leaned in slowly to bring her lips to his.

Annie closed her eyes in surrender, every nerve ending in her body alive with the yearning that churned through her soul. Erik's nearness flooded her senses. She wanted him. She _needed_ him. This was right. This _had_ to be right.

 _I love you, Antoinette_ , the voice dripping with honey rang in her ears, as golden curls glinted in the sun. _I love you forever, my wife._

"Erik," Annie gasped, pushing her hands roughly against his chest and pulling away from his embrace just before his lips touched hers. Leaping to her feet, she staggered a few paces away, covering her mouth with the palm of her hand to try and stem tingles of anticipation that still hummed along her lips.

Erik took in a shaky breath, realizing suddenly what he had just done. "Annie, I'm sorry," he said, running his fingers through his newly short hair, cursing his sinful nature for pushing Annie too far.

"I need to go," she forced herself to say, trying to steady her warring emotions. "There is much to be done for tonight."

Hearing the turmoil in her voice, Erik rose to his feet and crossed over to where she stood. Wanting only to comfort her, Erik lifted gentle hands to place them on her shoulder, "Annie, I…"

Dodging his advances, Annie pulled away and whirled around to face him. "Erik," she said, more sharply than before. "I _must_ go!"

Slowly lowering his hands to his sides, Erik felt sadness fill his soul. This was how it was always going to be. No matter how close they would become, no matter how great their need for each other, her _husband_ would always be there between them. Annie was not his. She could never be his. He was a fool to have put her in this position in the first place.

"Go mistress," Erik nodded, forcing the corners of his mouth to raise in a crooked grin despite the need that was still coursing through his veins, "make me proud."

With a final blush, Annie turned to scurry up the stairs, intent of focusing her energies on the tasks of the day, pushing the pleasure of Erik's touch out of her mind.

But as Annie disappeared from sight, the smile faded from Erik's face. "Damn you, Giles Giry," he growled through gritted teeth. "Damn you to hell!"

 **AN: Poor Erik and Annie-both comforted and tortured by each other's presence.**


	83. Chapter 83

CH 83

Erik flew up the stairs two at a time, his new cape billowing out behind him. Damn Giles Giry! _Damn him_! The man had everything—wealth, a handsome face and a respectable place in society. He could have had any woman he'd wanted in all of Paris—in all of France, for that matter. But of course he'd chosen Annie. And that was Giry's unforgivable sin.

Annie was _his_ , dammit! They had grown up together—faced down hell together—spent so many nights wrapped within each other's protective embrace. The boy who'd been born with nothing—no love, no family—not even a _face_ —by some miracle had awoken each morning with an angel in his arms. To have had her so close this morning—touching him so intimately…her caresses setting his senses ablaze… Of course he'd wanted to kiss her—to taste her lips once more in their rightful place, shifting sensuously against his own. He'd longed to ravish her right there, on the shores of the lake—with no thoughts of propriety or morality ever entering his mind. Her love had been the only truth he had ever known—and he needed her like he needed the air to breathe.

But he knew he could never have her again. For Giles Giry—the Parisian gentleman, who had already been bestowed with wealth, a pleasing appearance, and a respectable position in society had once again taken all the spoils, winning the ultimate prize when he stole Erik's angel away from him. There wasn't much that could cause Giry to feel the pain that Erik knew at the loss of his beloved, but he sure as hell was going to make things as uncomfortable for the man as possible!

Finally reaching the passage that led to Box 5, Erik pounded his fist against the hidden lever, and the tunnel's back wall slid aside. Storming into the rich antechamber, Erik surveyed the repairs that had been done in the time Giry had been away. The damaged façade had been patched and painted, and a new red velvet curtain had been hung, restoring the box to its original splendor. It would indeed be an opulent compartment for the count and his family to make their appearance at the opera tonight.

"Well," Erik muttered to himself, "we can't have that, can we?"

Moving with silent determination, Erik began to make his own renovations to Box 5's interior—pinning a note to the inward facing side of the curtain to make certain that his message would be crystal clear. He snickered as he imagined the shocked faces of the managers when they discovered the improvements he had made, and scrambled to accommodate their precious patron. And knowing that Giry had been in charge of ensuring that the box would be ready for opening night, Erik smiled to himself as he loosed the curtain tie and allowed the luxurious fabric to fall forward and obscure the view to the stage.

"You will not win tonight, Monsieur," Erik purred as he reviewed his handiwork, a satisfied smile spreading over his face. Content that he had caused his enemy sufficient trouble, Erik turned and once again slipped into the darkness, pressing the lever to conceal himself behind the wall once more.

* * *

Giles Giry was tired, but excited. It had been a long week and he'd missed Antoinette and Meg terribly. The mornings had been rather depressing, not being greeted by one of his daughter's bright-eyed smiles, and the nights had been cold without his wife by his side. But he had just dropped off his luggage at the house, stopping in for a few of Meg's most joyful hugs and kisses and now he was on his way to the opera house.

The first thing he was going to do was find his wife and steal her away for a few private moments in his office. Opening day be damned—he needed to hold Antoinette in his arms, to quell the fears that had plagued him during his time away. Something had seemed so wrong between them before he left. He had tried to reason with himself, replaying her voiced assurances again and again in his mind, but he knew nothing would convince him until he felt her arms wrapped tightly around his back, the touch of her lips on his.

He was on his way to the auditorium when he heard Claude Moncharmin calling his name from behind. Groaning inwardly, Giles forced a smile to his face and turned to greet his colleague, who was flanked by Monsieur Richard.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Giles said politely, nodding to both Moncharmin and Richard, "I was just on my way to find…."

"Oh, Monsieur Giry," Moncharmin stammered, cutting him off. "Thank heavens you're back."

"What is wrong, Claude?" Giles demanded, already feeling exasperation at the man's endless drama.

"It's that blasted Box 5 again," Richard informed him, rolling his eyes as he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"The curtain, Monsieur," Moncharmin continued. "It is hanging down loose, obscuring the interior of the box. It was not this way just a few hours ago. I tried to send one of the box keepers upstairs to fix it, and make certain we were ready for the count's arrival tonight, but the door is locked. According to our agreement, after the repairs were made the key was given to Madame Giry to store in your office, so that we could be certain there would be no more trouble before tonight. We were just going to find Madame to…"

"Pester her," Richard interjected, earning him a glare from Moncharmin.

" _Ask_ her for the key," Moncharmin finished his point.

Giles sighed. He could hear Antoinette conducting rehearsal inside the auditorium, counting the beats, calling the routine. His eyes ached for the blessed sight of her—his ears longed to simply listen as she guided her dancers. He had been so close to his goal. But he realized that the state of Box 5 was one more piece of minutia his wife did not need to worry about this day. "There is no reason to disturb Madame Giry," Giles informed them plainly. "She is obviously busy with far more important things than retrieving a key from my office." Forcing a polite smile back to his face, he added, "Follow me, gentlemen," as he turned and made his way back to his office.

Giles could have handed the key off to his colleagues to allow them to deal with the infernal curtain, and returned to the auditorium to abscond with his wife. There was something that told him, however, that he should go with the men and inspect the repairs to the box himself. Certainly there could be no new problems other than the tie back having been fastened too loosely. That had been the whole point of Antoinette storing the key separately, in his office—to prevent any mischief-makers from finding new opportunities to cause trouble. Checking on the box would surely not take too much time—only a few minutes at best—and then he would be back to his mission of whisking his wife away for a proper reunion after his long trip.

Easily fitting the key into the hole, Giles turned it quickly, wishing to waste no more time than necessary with this nettlesome little task.

"Good heavens!" Moncharmin exclaimed before Giles had even had the chance to look up.

The interior of Box 5 was bare! It had been stripped of every piece of furniture, every bit of decoration that had once embellished it, leaving it cold, barren and empty. Even the lantern that usually hung on a small hook in the antechamber was gone.

"Was this box inspected when the repairmen were done?" Giles asked, squinting out into the shadows before him.

"I looked in on it personally," Moncharmin moaned.

"And all was as it should have been?" Giles pressed.

"Of course!" Richard stated gruffly. "Do you think we would have waited until now to tend to things if it hadn't been?"

"And _no one_ has been in this box since the workers finished?" Giles asked again, ignoring Richard's question, wanting only to understand what had happened.

"Of course not!" Richard shot back. "We did not have the key!"

"Your _wife_ did!" Moncharmin retorted.

"What are you implying?" Giles snarled, not liking his colleague's tone one bit.

"Only that Madame Giry was the only one who could possibly have had access to this box, and…"

"Antoinette had nothing to do with this!" Giles quickly cut him off, refusing to hear his wife's name slandered in any way for even one moment.

"But how can you be sure…" Moncharmin began, but stopped when Giry shot him a glare that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

Turning away, at last, from the cowed man, Giles placed his hands on his hips and once again stared into the box. His vision having acclimated somewhat to the darkness, he noticed something not quite right about the curtain. Was something hanging from it?

Giles took a few steps forward, and discovered that there was indeed a piece of white paper, folded in half as a letter would be, pinned to the heavy fabric. Removing it carefully, he joined his colleagues once again in the foyer, motioning for them to follow him into the hall, where the light was better.

"What do you have there?" Richard asked, eyeing the paper in Giles's hands quizzically.

"It was attached to the back of the curtain," Giles answered. "It appears to be a note."

"Perhaps it is a clue?" Moncharmin asked hopefully, earning disdainful looks from his fellow managers.

Giles unfolded the note and quietly began to read.

 _Greetings Messieurs,_

 _It has come to my attention that the Count de Chagny has been assigned Box 5 for his personal use at this evening's premiere of_ Il ritorno d'Ulisse in patria _. I am certain this is due to its proximity to the Royal Box, as well as the excellent view it affords of the stage. However, I regret to inform you that this space will not be available for your noble patron, as it is to be otherwise occupied. Furthermore, I command that you leave Box 5 vacant for this and all future performances, as I have been absent from this establishment far too long and have resolved to attend performances regularly from this point forward._

 _I trust I have made my expectations quite clear._

 _Courteously,_

 _O.G._

"O.G.?" Moncharmin exclaimed, his eyes narrowing in confusion. "O.G?"

"Who the hell is O.G.?" Richard growled, not having liked the tone of the letter one bit.

"I don't know," Giry responded slowly, still gazing intently at the paper in his hands. There was something about the letter—something about…the handwriting…that seemed vaguely familiar. He felt as if he should know who O.G. was—as if he had known him once before… Finally, quite unable to place the identity of the writer, even though the man seemed to be playing at the very edges of his memory, Giry looked up to add, "However, I do know this. Box 5 will not be ready for the Count and his family tonight."

"Then what are we going to do?" Moncharmin groused, nervous about insulting the man who paid the majority of their bills. "We'll be ruined!"

"We shall invite the Count to sit in our private box," Giry responded, in an effort to calm his coworker's nearly frantic fears, "and we can watch the show from backstage." When he saw Moncharmin balk at the suggestion, he demanded, "Do you have a better solution?"

"No," Moncharmin admitted, "But our box is on the other side of the auditorium. It will not afford the count the same view. He will not be happy."

"Well, he will just have to make do," Giles remarked, adding, "We shall post guards outside the box tonight—from the moment we open the doors to the public. Whoever this O.G. is will be apprehended immediately if he tries to step foot anywhere near the box. And then he will be charged with theft and vandalism, ensuring that this shall be the last night he disrupts our operation."

Both Richard and Moncharmin nodded, grumbling a bit, but knowing that Giles's plan was sound. Securing the door to Box 5 once more, the men dispersed, Moncharmin and Richard heading back to their offices to contact the count, and Giles on his way to speak to security. Though his thoughts drifted back forlornly to the auditorium, where he knew his wife was still confidently walking her girls through a final rehearsal, his time with Antoinette would have to wait. "Tonight, my love," he murmured under his breath. "I hope…"

* * *

The excitement in the air was palpable, with all the girls twittering about backstage, getting

ready for the new production's debut.

"Is my wig straight?"

"Someone please help me with my corset!"

"Has anyone seen my other pointe shoe?"

Annie took the barely controlled chaos in stride—tying sashes and applying makeup to

already flushed faces. She knew that this was all par for the course. The dancers' energy was sure to

translate into a magnificent performance. They had run through the entire program that afternoon and truly, the dancers had been flawless. Annie knew the nerves and jitters would melt away as soon as the curtain was lifted and the first chords were struck by the orchestra, leaving only competence, elegance, and sheer perfection. And truth be told, she could not fault them for their excitement. Her own emotions had been in a frenzy all day.

She tried to attribute it to opening night—her first one acting as ballet mistress. It was an important night for her—one that could solidify her position as the director of ballet for years to come, or prove that she had not quite been ready for the task. Or perhaps it was because she knew Giles would be home today—and in fact, he had already arrived at the opera house, although _she_ had not seen him. Part of her knew she should be upset by that fact, but understanding the nature of opening night, she imagined that he had returned to an unrelenting list of duties to which he needed to attend, just as she had been looking after a multitude of items herself all day. She knew she would see him backstage at the performance—and they would have plenty of time to catch up at the celebratory ball.

But if Annie were honest, she would have to admit she knew exactly where those extra tingles of excitement were coming from—the vague feeling of breathlessness as the hours moved closer to the start of the show. _Erik_ would be watching—and just knowing he would be near caused the blood to course more quickly through her veins, and her heart to skip a beat.

Annie knew that visiting him that morning had been a mistake. She had been so close to breaking her vows—to passing a point from which she could never return. Erik's lips had called to her, and she'd felt irresistibly drawn to their firmness knowing they would soften as she melted into him, the tip of his tongue teasing her, tasting her, his arms pulling her ever closer to his wildly beating heart. She knew that if she had kissed him at that moment, that it was quite possible she never would have stopped—that they would have been united for all eternity in that embrace, as their souls regained the overwhelming joy that had once been stolen from them.

At the last second, she had pulled away, reality reminding her of the right thing to do. But even now, as she directed her energy into preparing the dancers in her care, she could still feel that tickle on her lips—that thrilling buzz that filled every cell of her body. She fantasized about how it would have felt to simply jump off that cliff and allow herself to fall into Erik's open, welcoming arms. And she wondered if she would have the strength—or even the will—to stop herself the next time.

* * *

"What in blazes…?" Giles muttered under his breath as he tried again—unsuccessfully—to unlock the door to Box 5. He checked his key ring again to confirm that he was, in fact, using the right key. But of course, he was. It fit into the lock, and it turned just fine. And yet, when he attempted to open the door, the wood simply would not budge. It was as if it had somehow been locked by some additional mechanism from the _inside.…_ which should not have been possible, since Giles himself had secured the door after he and the managers had become aware of the theft, and there had been two men posted right beside immediately following.

"Are you sure," Giles asked again, looking back to the bewildered guards, "absolutely certain, that no one has entered or exited the box in the time you have been stationed here."

"No, sir," the man on the right responded. "The door was locked the entire time. We did not even have the key."

Of course Giles knew that this was true, since he was, in fact, holding the only key to the box. His irritation level was climbing steadily, as it had been all day. After arranging for the guards to be placed at the doors, he'd been called upon to go with Moncharmin and Richard to the count's residence to explain to him the issue with his preferred box. The nobleman, used to always getting his way, had not been at all pleased.

"I do not understand, Monsieur Giry," he'd stated, taking a sip from his coffee as he regarded the three men standing nervously across from him, "how something like this could have happened under the watchful eyes of what I believed to be our three competent managers."

"I apologize, Monsieur," Giles began, "but I have just returned from a business trip this afternoon. The box was to have been secured the entire time I was away…"

"I understand," the count interjected, "that your own wife was to have taken custody of the key." The count raised his eyebrow questioningly as he took another sip of coffee.

"That is correct, sir," Giles nodded stiffly, ready to murder whoever it was who had brought Antoinette into this ridiculous situation. "However, she stored the key in my office—to which my fellow managers," he glared in Moncharmin and Richard's directions, "have the key. In truth, anyone who had access to my office had access to the key."

"Then perhaps," the count stated, casting a cool eye to each one of the managers in turn, "my impression of competency has in fact been unfounded."

The meeting had ended with the count making his displeasure quite clear. And now, as Giles stood outside the inexplicably locked box, he felt his temples begin to throb. He pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling a deep breath in an attempt to keep his irritation under control. He was on the verge of failing.

"All right," he snapped at the men who were dutifully carrying out their responsibility, "stay here. _No one_ —besides me—is to enter or exit this box—if we can ever get the blasted thing open! Do you understand?"

"Yes sir," the guard on the left said, giving a crisp nod.  
"See to it!" he said once more, before storming off, his aggravation level reaching new

heights.

Inside the box, Erik snickered quietly to himself. His time in Persia had taught him many things about securing entrances, and it had not taken much to make certain that the door would not budge, even if unlocked with the key. Which Giles Giry had tried to do. Three times. It had been supremely satisfying to hear his frustration mount each time he'd asked the guards if they were certain no one had attempted to enter or exit the box. His final command, which had been barked more than spoken, was a testament to how much he had gotten under Giry's skin.

It was, of course, exactly what the _noble gentleman_ deserved as far as Erik was concerned. He wondered how it felt for things to not go Giry's way for a change. Was it very distressing to him to not be the victor for once? Of course, he would be able to complain about the evening's frustrations later, and find consolation in the arms of his lovely wife—but Erik tried to push that needling thought out of his mind. For right now, that did not matter.

Once he was sure Giry had gone, Erik moved to the front of the box. The managers had left the curtain hanging when they had exited earlier, and that suited Erik's needs quite nicely. The darkness in the box, as well as his own black formalwear, would allow him to blend perfectly into the shadows and remain completely undetected—like the ghost his letter claimed him to be.

He smirked briefly, wondering which of those obtuse managers would figure out the meaning of the initials O.G. Would it be Moncharmin—who appeared to be afraid of his own shadow? Or Giry himself who, in keeping with his disgusting habit of being perfect, seemed to be the most astute of the three. Certainly not Richard who seemed to find the whole business of opera to be nothing more than a burden. Regardless, Erik was sure they would get to know him rather well in the coming days. He had decided that they would be hearing much from O.G.

He placed a single chair close to the front of the box, right along the drapery's edge. By nudging the fabric only slightly, he could indeed view the entire stage. Of course, the only person he truly cared to see was standing in the wings.

He could just see Annie—far off to stage right—ushering her ballerinas in as professionally as if she had done this job her entire life. The dancing was crisp and precise—the mark of Annie's talented guidance, no doubt. Erik felt his heart swell with pride with every pirouette, every arabesque, and every grand jeté. Though she was not on the stage, Erik felt Annie's influence in every step, and he felt as if his heart would absolutely burst with his joy for her accomplishments. Of course, he could also not help but find fault in other areas of the show—from the soprano to the orchestra. O.G. would have much to say!

When the show had finished and the curtain calls were complete, Erik saw Giles Giry take the stage. His eyes narrowed as he watched his nemesis smile toward the audience, drinking in their applause as if _he_ had anything directly to do with it. When the accolades came to their natural end, Giry stepped forth to stand near the edge of the stage.

"Thank you all for coming, and for your generous support of our company!" he said, with a commanding smile on his face. "I know that many of you have been with us since our opening season, and for that I express my undying gratitude. As many of you must know, however, this is our first production without the impeccable leadership of Madame Delacroix. However, I am pleased to announce that the position of ballet mistress has been filled by none other than my beautiful and talented wife, Madame Antoinette Giry!"

Giles bowed and extended his arm outward, inviting Annie to take the stage. The applause once again roared as the audience showed their appreciation for her fabulous efforts. Erik watched as Annie's cheeks reddened with embarrassment, but still, she walked to the center of the stage and stood beside Giry—who immediately put his arm around her, as if she was some possession that he was proud to put on display. As Annie stood there, shyly smiling at the audience, Erik knew it was his moment to make his presence known.

"Enchanté Mistress," he directed his whisper so that it would travel only to her ear.

Erik knew she had heard when he saw her suddenly lift her head in the direction of Box 5, her smile beaming brightly. Moving the curtain just slightly over, Erik locked his eyes with hers as he lightly touched his fingertips to his lips then extended them in her direction. When he saw her eyes lower demurely and her flush deepen, Erik knew his gesture had been understood, and he closed the curtain again, so that he wouldn't have to watch as Giles Giry placed a loving kiss upon his wife's cheek.

* * *

It was not until the ball after the performance that Annie had the chance to catch up with her husband. He had been in the wings during much of the show, but it seemed that whenever she'd had a free moment, he'd disappeared to tend to some sort of mysterious matter or another. Of course, she had not really minded—her attentions had been focused elsewhere—and not entirely where they should have been.

Through the evening, her thoughts of Erik had not faded—but only multiplied as the excitement around her grew. While she had been focused on making certain her girls had everything they needed to do their best, her mind kept wandering back to her first night as a dancer—when she knew a pair of golden eyes would be watching her—as he had promised they would be watching her tonight. She recalled the thrill she felt dancing only for him, and hearing his murmured praise in her ear at the completion of her act. It had seemed a lifetime ago, but tonight when once again his velvet whisper brushed her ear, she'd felt a shiver run through her entire body. She'd gazed up to where she knew he'd be, and caught his smoldering eyes glowing at her from across the sea of people. And when he sent a kiss in her direction, she'd had to look down and bite her lips, to try and ease the burning ache that blossomed within her at the gesture.

"I love you Antoinette," she heard her husband mutter as he kissed her cheek, squeezing her close to him. "I am so proud of you." But Erik's words still echoed in her ear, and she merely leaned her head against Giles's shoulder as the crowd continued to applaud.

Giles had been called away by the other managers as they stepped behind the curtain, giving her an apologetic glance. "It's all right," she told him. "I'll see you at the ball."

But as she navigated the room full of painted faces and dazzling bright gowns, nodding her thanks to praises she received along the way, she recalled the opening night when she'd skipped the ball, and celebrated her triumph in Erik's arms instead. It had been a bittersweet victory, that much was true—since she'd understood that in the morning Erik would depart—but that night they had known the exquisite pleasures their love for each other could create—the searing touches that had burned him into her soul.

As she placed her empty champagne glass on a server's tray, picking up a full one to take its place, she longed to escape this infernal crowd. She positioned herself away from the festive revelers, sticking close to the walls, in the hopes that Erik would at some point arrive. He would slip right out of one of the secret nooks and crannies that she knew ran behind the walls of the opera house—and whisk her away once more for a night beside the lake.

 _Enchanté, Mistress…_

Annie took another sip of her drink, certain it made her a sinful woman, but knowing she would go with him, and escape to that magical darkness where the right thing didn't matter and all that was important could be found in each other's arms. Tomorrow, they could deal with the consequences, but tonight she would be his—if he would only come to her. It had been far too long.

"My darling," she heard the husky words and she looked up to find the bright blue eyes of her husband sparkling back at her. "Finally I have found you."

Annie forced a smile to her face, and tried not to sound disappointed as she said, "Giles I'm not hiding. I have been right here…waiting." It was not a lie, she reasoned, if she did not mention whom she had been waiting for.

"I have missed you, my love," he murmured, as he took her face in his hands, and kissed her lips firmly and fully.

Behind her closed eyelids, it was Erik's lips that kissed her, and when she trailed her fingers up to tangle in her husband's curls, it was silky black hair that she captured in her hands. But she did not pull away, and she did not fight it. Instead, she kissed her husband back with great abandon, and when she heard him let loose a shaky whimper, it was Erik's lusty moan she heard in her heart.

Her husband was breathless when they pulled away, and he gazed deeply into her eyes as he asked her, "Mistress, would you care to dance?"

"But of course," Annie responded, abandoning her nearly empty flute on a side table, and allowing Giles to lead her to the dance floor.

Annie closed her eyes and allowed herself to get lost in the music. In her mind, it was Erik's arms that wrapped around her, and Erik's body that pressed closely against her as they moved in time with dance.

"My dear, you are exquisite tonight," she heard her husband's shaky whisper.

"So are you," she sighed, dreamily, "angel."

"Monsieur Giry," Annie heard a male voice ask, "would you mind if I cut in? I would love to congratulate the new ballet mistress on a job well done."

Annie opened her eyes to identify this interloper, but finding it to be no one she knew, she looked again at Giles. Noting the fire in her eyes, he did not break Annie's gaze as he responded, "My regrets, but Madame Giry and I must be going, now. Perhaps next time." And releasing her from his embrace only so that he could bend his arm in her direction, Giles led Annie toward the exit.

Their eyes continued to devour one another as they made their departure. Just as they were leaving, Claude Moncharmin's whiny voice called out to him.

"Monsieur Giry, wait! There is a very pressing matter to which we need to attend."

Not looking at him, Giles responded, "It will have to wait until the morning, Monsieur. I have my own matters to attend to right now." And walking outside into the cool night air, they wasted no time finding their carriage, and setting off for home.

Once they were underway, traveling along the bumpy, cobblestone streets of Paris, Annie reached across Giles to pull down the shade on the little window.

"Antoinette," Giles asked, a bit puzzled by her actions, "what are you doing?"

Annie made no reply, but only smiled coyly and climbed onto his lap, lifting her skirts so that she could straddle him.

"Antoinette…" Giles asked again, but his voice trailed off into a breathy moan as she took his face into her hands and kissed him hungrily, grinding herself against him.

"Love me!" she commanded feverishly, between kisses, as her fingers fumbled wildly at the fasteners for his trousers.

"Here?" Giles asked, shocked by his wife's wanton behavior, but not at all displeased.

"Yes, here! Now!" she moaned, as his hands moved up to cup her breasts. "Please! I need you."

"Oh God!" he groaned, as Annie finally freed his painfully hard member from his pants. Slipping his hands beneath her skirts, he pushed down her bloomers, and positioned himself at her entrance. With a single, powerful thrust, he was inside her, and he and his wife rode out their pleasure wildly, lustily all the way home.

It was not long before he was spilling himself within her, and a loud cry tore from Annie's throat as her core tightened and her body quaked violently around him. And as she collapsed against him, her wild passion completely spent, she felt him stroke her hair, whispering, "I love you, I love you," over and over again as the carriage slowed to a stop.

"I love you too," she murmured back, closing her eyes as she buried her head in the crook of his neck.

 _Erik_ …

 **AN: Oh wow. What a lot going on! Annie had a triumphant night on stage, but Erik was being VERY very naughty. Of course, speaking of naughty, Annie managed to stay faithful to her wedding vows-but it might have just been because opportunity did not present itself at the ball. If Erik had come to her...**

 **But then, after she and Giles were intimate, she finally said the three words Giles has been longing to hear. "I love you..." But of course, in her heart, she was saying it to Erik. In her heart, it's _always_ Erik. Poor, poor Giles... **


	84. Chapter 84

CH 84

Annie felt gentle fingers stroking small circles on her back and her husband's firm chest was warm beneath her cheek. Glimpses of the night before came flooding back to her memory. She recalled how they had adjusted their clothing before stumbling out of the carriage, Giles providing the flabbergasted driver with a very generous tip for the awkward predicament their little indiscretion had put him in. With his arm hugging her closely to him, they'd made it into the quiet house and up the stairs to their bedroom before allowing their desire to overcome them once again, hastily discarding their evening finery on the floor. Twice more they had joined their bodies, ravenous kisses capturing their cries of ecstasy and protecting the ears of their beloved nanny and the children that also slept in their home. Finally, they had collapsed in exhaustion, Annie's head upon Giles's chest, her husband's arm circled firmly around her—and apparently, they had not moved at all during the night. It would have been a perfectly lovely memory from which to arise, if Annie's temple was not throbbing as it was.

Slowly, she opened her eyes, and the bright rays of the sun streaming in through the bedroom window, rudely screamed their morning greeting. Moaning and slamming her eyes shut once again, Annie buried her head more deeply into Giles's chest.

"Ahh, I see my Sleeping Beauty has awakened," Giles's voice rumbled low in his chest, as he tightened his grip around her and placed a tender kiss on the top of her head.

"She is trying to," Annie croaked, her throat dry as sandpaper. She had obviously had more to drink the night before than she'd realized and it appeared this morning she would be paying the price.

Chuckling softly, Giles pulled her even more closely to him, kissing her head once again. "I know, Antoinette," he said warmly, "I don't want to get out of bed either. I would love nothing more than to spend the entire day wrapped in your arms, reliving the wonders of last night."

Annie's only response was to sigh, guilt beginning to gnaw at her heart. Perhaps it had been the alcohol she'd consumed while waiting at the ball, but last night, she had not had the strength—nor the inclination—to push Erik out of her mind. The years of longing had finally caught up with her, and while Giles had been wholeheartedly expressing his love for her with his magnificent body, she had been making love to Erik behind closed eyes.

"My darling," her husband said, stroking her hair, his voice soft and low. Annie struggled to open her eyes, and looked up to meet the twin seas of blue that gazed back at her in adoration. "I am sorry that things have been so stressful for us lately," he told her, sincerely, "with your new position, and caring for Meg, and my traveling. I think, perhaps, I have not done enough to help you through this hectic time. Before I left, you seemed so very far away.

"But I promise you, Antoinette," he vowed, his voice taking on a more serious tone, his hand grasping hers firmly. "That is going to change. I am here for you, my love—and I will do whatever it takes to prove to you again and again how much I love you. I am so very proud of you, my talented, _beautiful_ , wife."

Tipping her chin up, her husband lowered his mouth to hers. Allowing him to capture her lips, Annie silently berated herself. Giles did not deserve her disloyalty. He had never been anything but good to her. He loved her, he supported her, and he had brought so much joy and happiness into her life. He had been so patient with her when she'd believed Erik was dead, encouraging her to express her feelings about her lost lover, though she knew that her every word was a dagger to his heart. Yet, while she had taken her husband into her body last night, Erik had been in her soul. And in the state she had been at the ball, she knew that if Erik had appeared, like she'd been hoping he would, she would have sinned against her husband not only in thought, but in deed.

And that was _not_ right.

She had to get herself together. What had happened to her and Erik was horrible, shattering, unspeakably heartbreaking. But her duties—her responsibilities—were to Giles now, and to their daughter. They had been happy obligations once, and they could be again. She knew that she would always love Erik, but she had to try to remember how much she had also cared for Giles—and she had to force herself to make her affection for her husband be forefront in her heart.

Annie continued to kiss her husband—at least while she was kissing him, she could keep her eyes closed against the harshness of the light. She could feel his arousal growing against her belly as she extended her arm upward to tangle her fingers in his soft golden curls. With a breathy sigh, Giles began to shift onto his back, when a loud cry from the next room stopped them in their tracks. Their daughter was awake.

Giles groaned quietly, and Annie chuckled, pulling away from their kiss.

"Meg is hungry, my dear," she whispered.

"So am I," he moaned, but released his wife from his arms.

"Yes, my husband," Annie said sweetly, as she rose to pull on her dressing gown. "But I promise—you shall have your fill later." Smiling, Annie turned to go to Meg, but stopped when she felt Giles's hand gently grasp her wrist. Looking back at him, she raised her eyebrows in a silent question.

"I love you, Antoinette," Giles said, a happy smile spreading over his features.

Annie felt her heart clench. She had spoken those words aloud last night, she knew—her husband had no idea that as the traitorous syllables were falling from her lips, they were meant for another. But what did it matter now? She had made her choice—she belonged to Giles. All promises and vows that were once between her and Erik were broken—as they should have been on the days she's sworn, _I do_.

"I love you too," she smiled sweetly, not quite able to speak his name, as her heart labeled her a liar. Looking down, she hurried off to tend to her daughter.

* * *

After tending to Meg's needs, Giles and Annie shared a quick breakfast with Giselle and the children before making their way to the opera house. A blush spread over Annie's cheeks when she noticed how the coachman refused to meet their eyes as he held the door open to them, most likely traumatized by the rather telling noises that had emanated from within the carriage the night before. Once inside the darkened compartment, Annie buried her face in her hands.

"Oh Giles," she groaned in mortification. "Did I really do that last night?"

"Yes," he chuckled, placing a reassuring arm around her shoulders, "you did."

"I'm so embarrassed," she lamented.

"Don't be," Giles said sweetly, pulling her closer. "I loved it." And tipping her head up, he gave her a gentle peck on the lips. "Besides," he added, when the kiss was over, "we're married. We have every right to take pleasure in one another behind closed doors."

"We were in a carriage, Giles," Annie retorted.

"And the doors _were_ closed," he countered, with a smile.

Annie rolled her eyes and shook her head, but could not suppress the smile that forced itself to her lips. Her husband could always disarm her with his boyish humor, and she felt herself relaxing just a little.

All of that changed, of course, the minute they made it to the opera house.

"Monsieur Giry!" Moncharmin exclaimed the minute he saw them walking into the building, eliciting a quiet grumble from Giles's throat.

"Good morning, Monsieur Moncharmin," Giles said by way of greeting. "How are you doing this fine day?"

"Fine day?" he asked, his nerves apparent in his voice. "Fine day? I'd say it was anything but a fine day, Monsieur!"

With a heavy sigh, Giles asked, "What could possibly be wrong now, Claude?"

"You really have to ask that, Monsieur?" Moncharmin asked, incredulous that Giles was so calm. "After the debacle we had last night with Box 5?"

"Box 5?" Annie asked, turning to Giles questioningly. "What happened last night with Box 5?"

"It's a very long story, Antoinette," Giles told her in a low voice. "I'll tell you all about it later."

"And do you not remember," Moncharmin added, "That another, rather urgent matter, arose last night just as you chose to leave?"

Despite the seriousness in Moncharmin's tone, Giles could not repress a quiet chuckle at the man's unwitting irony. Feeling Antoinette lightly elbow him in the ribs, Giles forced the smirk away from his face as he responded, "I do apologize for deserting you in a time of great need. What is this matter to which we must attend?"

"Monsieur Richard is already in his office. I think it would be best if we go there and meet with him to discuss it."

"Alright," Giles nodded. Turning to Annie, he smiled and said softly, "I'll meet you for lunch."

"Madame Giry," Moncharmin interjected, "you should probably come to this meeting as well."

They both looked at the bumbling manager in surprise, Giles asking, "Why would my wife need to be present at the meeting?"

Moncharmin's mouth was a tight line across his face, as he replied, "Monsieur Richard awaits," before swiftly turning on his heel and charging off to the office.

"Sometimes I think that man belongs _on_ the stage," Giles muttered, rolling his eyes.

Giggling, Annie took hold of her husband's arm, saying, "Come on, Monsieur Giry. We wouldn't want to give him reason to become alarmed."

Giles snickered, but he and Annie dutifully followed along, eager to hear exactly what it was that had the manager so upset this time.

Giles and Annie arrived at the manager's office to find the two men huddled over a piece of paper, irritation clear on Richard's face while anxiety was etched across Moncharmin's.

"Alright gentlemen," Giles said by way of greeting. "Would you care to tell me what this urgent matter is that needs our immediate attention?"

Both of his colleagues looked up, and Moncharmin opened his mouth to speak, but, mercifully, Richard stopped him before he could start. "We were finally able to get into Box 5 last night after the show, …" he said.

"What?" Annie asked, once again becoming concerned when Erik's favorite box number was mentioned. "Why couldn't you get into Box 5 before the show?"

"As I said earlier, Antoinette," Giles muttered "long story."

"…and when we did," Richard continued, completely ignoring Annie's question, "we found this." Richard held up a piece of stationery which had been folded over in half. Annie's blood grew cold when she saw the flowy, spidery writing that adorned it.

 _Greetings Messieurs,_ Richard read,

 _I trust that you were able to find suitable accommodations for that other guest who had previously been so rudely scheduled to sit in my box. Box 5 proved the perfect place from which to watch the spectacle of tonight's opera—even with your irritating pounding on the door. It puzzles me that you kept trying to gain access to the box even after I told you that it was to be left empty from this point forward._

 _I must say, however, that even with the excellent view, I found this evening's production to be a vast disappointment. The wind section was out of tune—the acting was over-done—and that new Italian Soprano was ridiculous. She preened as much as she screeched. She will have to be replaced forthwith._

 _The only bright spot in the show came from the corps du ballet—who were obviously very well prepared for the stage by the extraordinarily talented Antoinette. Her direction of the dancers will be a great boon to the Palais Garnier. However, as I presume you know, ballet does not make an entire opera. There was much room for improvement elsewhere, and I suggest that you busy yourselves making these adjustments immediately—if not sooner. Remember…I will be watching._

 _Sincerely,_

 _OG._

Richard looked up, catching Giles's eyes as he spoke the signature at the bottom of the letter.

"O.G. again," Moncharmin stammered. "Who is this O.G.?"

"O.G. …" Giles repeated, taking the parchment from Richard and looking it over for himself, something about this new note being once again, strangely familiar.

" _O.G._ " Annie seethed under her breath, but no one noticed.

"Whoever it is," Richard said, "He must be stopped. The count was rather cold last night—he is furious that his Box was closed off to him and he wants it to be available for his use immediately."

"The _count_?" Annie muttered, incredulous that Erik would go to such lengths, just to get a seat for the evening show.

"I would still like to know how this O.G. was able to gain access to Box 5 in the first place," Moncharmin said. "It was supposed to have been locked after the repairmen had worked on it. And, Madame Giry," he continued, looking directly at her with suspicion in his eyes, " _you_ had possession of the only key."

Annie stared at him, a bit aghast at his insinuations, but before she could make a response, Giles interjected, "I told you last night that Antoinette had nothing to do with this!"

"Last night?" she looked up at her husband confused.

"Well, you must admit," Moncharmin defended, "it is very strange that the box was put in _her_ care, and that the agitator who continues to vex us wrote a letter singing _her_ praises as the only worthy part of the show."

"Well, I cannot help it," Giles countered, quite annoyed now at his bothersome colleague, "if the trespasser also happens to know his opera! I told you not to hire that new diva!"

"In Milan," Moncharmin retorted, straightening his back and jutting his chin out, "she is a star!"

"Well in Paris," Richard chimed in his own disgust, "she is a BORE!"

"Oh, not you too!" Moncharmin stared at his colleague in reproach.

The managers continued to bicker amongst one another but Annie had long since stopped listening. "O.G." she muttered between gritted teeth, her irritation at Erik's games building steadily in her gut. She couldn't believe he would do this! Not after all the commotion the opera ghost had caused before. She had lost her position because of his ridiculous little routine the last time, and now, once again, she was under suspicion.

Annie shoved herself away from her seat and stormed out of the office door, without another word to the managers. She had made a vow to herself to put her duties as a wife and her loyalty to her husband at the forefront of her mind. Now she was going to do just that. She knew exactly how to settle this matter.

"Antoinette!" Giles called after her, when he saw her leave, and ran to the doorway, glaring hard at Moncharmin. Annie, however, was already gone. "Well, Monsieur Moncharmin," Giles spat at him. "Now you have upset my wife!" Giles ran out of the office to try to track her down, still holding the offending letter in his hand. But while he made his way to the rehearsal room, Annie was making _her_ way to Box 5.

* * *

Annie flung open the door to Erik's box. Since the managers were being much more careful about keeping the box doors locked, Annie had gotten a secret copy made of the key in Giles's absence, knowing that she had to do something to preserve her ability to visit Erik. Of course, at just that moment, thoughts of throwing both key and man right into the lake swirled continuously in her head.

Passing into the hidden tunnels, Annie flew down the stone staircase, charging angrily into the underground chamber where she found Erik reclined upon a very familiar looking red cushioned chair, a second one placed before him, being used as a stool for his feet. Four more chairs were arranged into a square off to the side of the room—and Annie could almost imagine being seated on one of them during a fine dinner party—except, of course, that there was no table— and that Erik didn't like guests.

"Erik!" she demanded, by way of greeting. "Why do you have these chairs?"

Looking over to where Annie stood, her hands placed firmly on her hips in obvious irritation, he responded, "So that the managers _don't_ have them."

Taking a few steps closer to him, she glared and asked, "Erik how could you? Reviving the opera ghost? After all the trouble he caused last time? What were you thinking?"

With a nonchalant shrug, Erik replied, "I was thinking it might be fun to give those bumbling idiots a bit of advice on how to run an opera. Really Annie," he continued, "you must admit that there was so much about last night that was simply awful. Dancing aside, of course."

"Oh yes," Annie nodded, her nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed. "And you _had_ to write that in your note as well, didn't you? You _had_ to compliment the dancing and mention my name."

Erik looked at her quizzically. "Well, of course I didn't want to imply that you had done anything wrong."

"Oh really?" Annie asked, eyebrow raised. "What exactly did you mean to imply when you praised the only person who had possession of the key to Box 5? Even Moncharmin is not enough of an idiot to miss the implications of that!"

"They think _you_ allowed me into Box 5?" Erik asked quietly, sitting up straighter as he processed this new piece of information.

"Well they certainly did not think that you were already within Box 5, living in a hidden world unknown to anyone but a select few," Annie retorted. "From their perspective you had to get inside the box somehow! Did you never think about how your actions would reflect upon me?"

"No, Annie, I…" he said, rising to his feet.

"And did you _never_ stop to think how your actions would reflect upon Giles?" she asked, her nostrils flaring in her fury. "He had worked so hard to restore Box 5 to a useable state for opening night, and then you went and ransacked it at the last minute."

Erik's thoughtful expression turned to a hateful sneer at the mention of Giry's name. "Why should I care how my actions reflect upon _him_?"

"He is my husband," Annie cried in exasperation.

"He is the man who stole everything from me!" Erik yelled, pain evident in his voice.

Annie stared at him, shaking her head at his erroneous accusation. "He _took_ nothing, Erik," Annie responded, trying to make him see reason, "that was not freely given!"

"He manipulated you…." Erik spat, refusing to believe, for even one moment, that Annie had entered into a relationship with the young manager willingly.

"He _loved_ me!" Annie said, tears welling in her eyes. "And he doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve any of this!" Turning from Erik, Annie began to make her way toward the stairs.

"Annie," Erik said, reaching out and roughly grabbing her arm in his hand, momentarily halting her progress.

"I shouldn't be here, Erik," Annie said the words she never thought she would say to the man she loved so much, scarcely able to look at him. "Not now…not…at all. My obligation is to Giles," she insisted with shaky resolve.

"You speak of obligation," Erik snarled, desperately, his grasp on her hand tightening in frustration. "But do you love him, Annie?"

Annie took a moment to draw in a hitched breath as she forced herself to gaze into those golden eyes that she knew she would cherish for the rest of her days. And pushing down the pain that lodged deeply within her heart she answered a breathy, "Yes. Now please Erik," she begged through her tears, "Let me go."

Erik immediately released his hold on her hand and stood there, stunned, as Annie ran toward the stairs.

* * *

Giles sat in his office, door slightly ajar so that he had a view into the corridor beyond. He had made a thorough search for Antoinette, but not having been able to find her, he returned to his office and laid out both letters sent by O.G., side by side, on his desk. There was something so familiar about them—like he had read something from this person before—but he could not recall knowing anyone with the initials O.G. And yet, there was something about the spidery scrawl—something about the formal cadence of writing… He was sure he knew O.G. by another name—he just had to figure out which one.

He continued to stare at the letters before him, to try and make the connection between what he was reading and what he knew he had read before. It was imperative that he discover this O.G. person—not just because of how he had vandalized the opera house, but because of the way he had singled out Antoinette in his letter. He was obviously fond of her, referring to her as the _extraordinarily talented Antoinette._

Funny _,_ he thought as he read that sentence over again, that he did not use her last name. It was almost as if he were familiar with her— _close_ to her—as if last names were somehow unnecessary and meaningless between them? Wouldn't it have been more proper to refer to her as Madame Giry—since it was her married name and the one she went by professionally?

Giles suddenly felt a chill run down his spine as he looked again at the letters' signatures and recalled another letter that hadn't used Antoinette's married name. Throwing open his desk's bottom drawer, he rifled through some papers until he found it—a letter addressed to Antoinette Laramie, which had arrived long after they had been married. Giles unfolded the missive and placed it beside the notes that had been left by O.G.

The paper was different, the letter that had come through the mail having been penned on simple notebook paper, rather than the heavier parchment of the two notes found in Box 5. But it too spoke of Antoinette's extraordinary talent, and it was written in the same flowing hand. This one, however, was signed E.

 _Erik_! Giles gasped. Despite what Kaveh had said, Erik was alive—and he was back, taking on the persona of the very same O.G. that had vandalized Box 5 and left the threatening notes. And suddenly it hit Giles what O.G. must stand for. Opera Ghost! That character who had tangled with the count and his son in the early days of the opera, and had caused great fear among the company of the Palais Garnier.

Just then, Giles heard a rustling go past his door, and he looked up to see his wife running past, her hand over her mouth as if she were crying.

"Antoinette!" Giles called as he shoved the notes back in his desk and jumped from his seat to get her attention. She had to know that Erik was back—and that he was dangerous. "Antoinette wait!" He ran to the doorway, just in time to see his wife rounding the bend.

"Damn!" He muttered as he made his way after her, but Antoinette was obviously upset about something and she was moving very fast. Though he continued to call out to her, she was either ignoring him or could not hear him because of her obvious distress—so Giles continued to follow her as she ran out the doors of the opera house.

The early afternoon light was bright and glaring, but not so blinding that Giles couldn't see the carriage that was crossing the road in front of the opera house. Antoinette, however, appeared to be running right toward it!

Two strong hands suddenly pushed Annie forward, sweeping her off her feet and causing her to land harshly on the sidewalk. She was a bit rattled, but a loud clatter, followed by terrified shouts behind her broke through her stupor and she turned to see Giles—her handsome and strong husband—laying battered and broken beneath the wheels of a wagon, his limbs askew at odd angles, blood pouring out of a wound on his head.

And as a loud, piercing sound swelled up from all around her, enveloping her, and crushing her under the weight of its agony, Annie realized she was screaming. And she felt as if she would never stop.

 **AN: Giles! NO!**


	85. Chapter 85

CH 84

The world around Annie faded into a haze. She was vaguely aware of a horse's whinny and a teeming sea of people undulating all around her, as the struggled to move a wagon out of the road. A man from some far off place yelled for a doctor and then dropped to the ground, braying on and on about how the man lying in the road had come out of nowhere and there had been no time to stop. None of this truly registered with Annie, however, as she dragged herself over to where her husband lay, battered from his tangle with the wagon's wheels. The chaos erupting all around her was surely happening in some faraway world having no bearing on her own reality. Wasn't it?

She thought her heart would stop at the sight of Giles sprawled painfully on the ground, his beautiful golden curls turning a bright, angry shade of red as the blood seeped from the wound on his temple. His lungs labored strenuously to fill with air, but Annie was just so grateful to see that he was still breathing. His eyes were closed, but he lifted his heavy lids at the sound of her wretchedly sobbing his name.

"An…An…Antoinette," he struggled to say, but despite his efforts, a spark of hope lit in his cloudy blue eyes. "Are you… all right?" he asked in a spidery voice as he fought for air.

"Yes," she insisted, tears pouring out of her eyes, at his concern for her, "because of you!"

"Good," he said, as he heaved for air.

"I'm so sorry, Giles." Annie responded, miserably. "I'm _so_ sorry!"

"I'm not," he coughed, a little blood trickling out from the corner of his lips. "You're…safe."

"But you're hurt," she countered, grasping his hand in hers, and bringing it to her lips, "and I will never forgive myself for that."

"There…" he coughed again, and for a moment it seemed that he would not be able to catch his breath. Finally, however, the spasms stopped, and he was able to go on, "…is nothing to forgive. I would happily give my life for you, Antoinette. You and Meg…were the best things," he added, as his eyes once again began to flutter closed, "to happen…to me,"

"Giles!" Annie shouted sharply, reaching up and lightly patting his cheek as she watched him begin to fade away, her heart pounding now in terror, "don't you dare talk like that! Stay with me! _Stay_ with me!"

"Antoinette," Giles whispered, forcing himself back from the brink of unconsciousness, "I…will try."

"Do not leave me, Giles!" she commanded, squeezing his hand tightly. "You cannot leave me."

"Pardon me, Madame," Annie heard a male voice say behind her, "but we have to get him to the hospital."

Tearing her eyes away from her husband, she looked up to see two men standing next to a medical wagon which must have arrived while she was focused on Giles.

"Please," she begged them kindly, "let me stay with him."

"Madame, there is not enough room in the…" the younger of the two men began to say, but having taken a quick glance at Giles, the elder medic whispered something in his partner's ear. Clearing his throat, the younger man amended what he was about to say. "You must be certain to stay out of our way, Madame," he prefaced his statement, "but if you prefer, you can ride with your…"

"Husband," Annie sobbed.

"Husband," the medic repeated, nodding grimly.

"Thank you," Annie whispered, as she turned her attention back to Giles. "I am not leaving you, Giles," Annie told him softly, as the medics began to examine him. "Don't you leave me!"

"Does he have any other family, Madame?" the older man asked, as they began to secure Giles to a stretcher.

"Only our infant daughter," Annie answered, watching over her husband and squeezing his hand tightly every time he began to close his eyes, "and his sister, Charlotte, who lives out in the country."

"I see," he answered.

At the medics' urging, Annie got in the wagon first, so that she could sit near the rear of the vehicle, close to where Giles's head would be. Once they had loaded him in, the driver of the ambulance approached Richard and Moncharmin who had hovered nearby the whole time.

"Do you know this man?" he asked.

"We work with him," Richard answered, while Moncharmin only nodded.

"Contact his family," he told him in no uncertain terms. "His daughter and sister need to get to the hospital quickly."

A stunned expression spread over Moncharmin's face. "Surely you don't mean…"

"His injuries are severe, Monsieur," the medic said with a grave look on his face. "I fear he does not have much time." With a final, solemn nod to the men, the medic walked around to the front of the carriage, and climbed aboard.

"Damn!" Richard exclaimed angrily as they watched the wagon depart. "Damn it all to hell!"

* * *

"Madame Giry…."

Annie looked up to see a woman in a long white uniform walking toward her from the examining room. She had been sitting alone in the hallway, just staring at the wall, waiting for someone to bring her news about Giles. But now as she met the sad, guarded eyes of the approaching nurse, she knew it would be news she didn't want to hear.

"You may go in to see your husband," the woman said, once she had reached Annie's side.

Annie stood immediately to rush toward the examining room, but the nurse laid a gentle hand on her arm to halt her progress.

"Madame," she said, compassion filling her watery blue eyes, "his injuries were very grave. He…" she shook her head sadly, "is not well…"

Annie took in a deep breath and nodded stoically at the woman before she continued on her way.

Her once vibrant husband was laying there, alone in his bed, a red stained bandage wound around his forehead, deep black bruises spreading out from beneath the white wrap that held his ribs together. The lips that seemed to be always either smiling or kissing her were slack and cracked, his breathing shallow and thready. Annie could barely stand to see him look so frail.

"Giles," she said softly, hurrying to take a seat at his bedside, grasping his hand in hers.

"Antoinette," he murmured groggily. "I love you."

"I love you too, Giles," she swore, vowing in her heart to do a better job of it from this point forward. She could no longer allow Erik to distract her from being the kind of wife Giles deserved. "And I will be with you every step of the way…"  
"Yes, Antoinette," he smiled weakly and tried to squeeze her hand, though he barely had any strength with which to do so, "stay with me. Please…stay with me. For I fear the way…is not long…"

"Giles Giry," Antoinette scolded, shaking her head. "Do not talk like that! You are going to get well, and you are going to come home to me and your daughter. We will raise her together and be a family."

"I fear," he said sadly, "you will have to do the job for both of us."

"No!" Annie interjected vehemently, but when Giles scrunched his eyes together and winced, she silenced her protests.

"Please, Antoinette," he said, and Annie could tell that very word was a tremendous effort. "Let me speak."

Not wishing to cause him any stress in his weakened state, Annie only nodded.

"You and Meg," he said as firmly as his battered lungs would allow, "are my world. I love… you _both_ …more than I ever thought I could. You must promise to stay strong for her when I…" his voice trailed off as tears entered his eyes at the thought of leaving his beautiful daughter, "am gone."

"Giles, please," Annie whispered, looking down and shaking her head, tears streaming freely down her face.

"Antoinette," he breathed harshly, "if I could live a thousand years only to love you…I still fear it would never be long enough. But my time is at an end…"

"No," Annie moaned softly under her breath. "No."

"Antoinette," he continued, his voice growing a bit sharper even in his weakened state, "there…there is something you should know."

"What is it my love?" she asked sadly, treasuring his every word—his every breath.

"E…e…erik" he stuttered, "i…is alive."

Annie stared at her husband in shock, the blood rushing more quickly through her chest, roaring like a river past her ears. Had her deception these past few weeks been so obvious? How could he know? "Giles," she asked him, "What are you saying?"

"L…l…last year," he began, struggling to tell his tale before the opportunity was lost, "a letter came in the mail. It…it was addressed to you—using your maiden name—but it was from Persia, and I remembered what the last letter from Persia did to you, so I…" he paused when a coughing fit wracked through his body, shaking him so violently that Annie considered calling in the nurse. But the coughing stopped, and Giles continued, "I opened it. I'm sorry, Antoinette," he added, his eyes full of remorse, "I'm so sorry."

"Shhhh, Giles," she hushed away his fears, as she felt her stomach begin to roil, "it's alright. It's alright."

"It was from Erik, Antoinette," he told her, and Annie felt the breath leave her body at the blow of his words. "He…he wrote about how much he lo…lo…loved you, and how much he m…missed you. I…" he continued, tears of regret filling his eyes. "I never told you. I wasn't sure if it was real, or if it was just some hoax. And I was so…afraid," he added, some of his tears spilling out to roll down his cheek, "of losing you. We had come so far, Antoinette. We had just found out about Meg…I didn't want you to leave me… I'm sorry…" he gasped, frantic now in his guilt. "I…I…I'm _sorry_ …"

"Oh Giles," she sobbed, reaching up to wipe away his tears, "Shh…It doesn't matter." She placed a lingering kiss on the hand she still held in hers, then pressed it tightly against her heart. "None of that matters."

There was the smallest bit of anger lodged deep in her soul that her husband had known for well over a year that Erik was alive, and had said nothing. It was completely overshadowed, however, by the guilt she felt realizing that he had doubted her affections for him so greatly. Giles had been so sure she would immediately leave him for Erik—and considering how ready she had been to break her marriage vows last night, she knew he'd had good reason for his fears.

"I did write…" he continued his tale, his need to tell it far outweighing her need to hear it, "to my contact in Persia to check, and he told me that Erik had been publically executed for falling out of favor with the shah. But he…must have been wrong, Antoinette," Giles stated, growing agitated, "because Erik is back. He is the one who left the notes in Box 5. They were written in his handwriting. _Erik_ is the Opera Ghost!"

"Giles," she told him, tears streaming down her face, "Erik doesn't matter," though she knew, even at that moment, that it was a lie. " _You_ matter to me, dear husband," she vowed, bringing his hand to her lips once more. " _Only_ you—and our family."

"Erik is dangerous, Antoinette!" Giles sputtered, urgently trying to get the information out. "He was an exe…"

At that moment, Giles's words were halted when his door once again opened and Giselle walked in, carrying baby Meg.

"Giles," Annie told him, with a reassuring smile, certain that her husband's strength had now arrived. "Your daughter is here."

When Giles looked up to see his red haired friend carrying Meg in her arms, his face lit with joy. His daughter's curls bounced with Giselle's hurried steps, and she leaned forward out of her nanny's hold to reach for him with her pudgy arms. "My little daisy," Giles said as he tried to push himself upwards in the bed to take her in his arms.

Giselle handed Meg off to Annie, who held the child close so that her father could look at her.

"She…" he said, lifting a trembling hand to caress her springy curls the very same color as his own, "is my greatest accomplishment."

"You," Annie told him truthfully, "are her greatest joy. She adores you, Giles," Annie informed him, as she watched her daughter giggle at her father's touch. "You must hold on for her, if not for me."

Looking into his wife's desperate brown eyes, and eager to make her understand the depth of his feelings, Giles vowed, "I would hold on for _both_ of you. But I fear I am not that strong."

Just then, a tremor ran through him, and Annie saw her husband's eyes grow wide in fear as his body continued to shake more and more violently. "Giselle!" she called, never tearing her eyes away from his as their dear friend came and took the baby from them. "Get the doctor!" Annie commanded as Giselle quickly ran out the door.

"Antoinette…" Giles called for her, looking wildly around the room, though she was seated right beside him. "Antoinette."

"I'm right here, Giles," she assured him, cupping his face in her hands, turning him toward her, not sure what was happening. "I'm right here."

"Everything…is black, Antoinette," Giles said, his breath coming rapid and shallow as he fought against the convulsions that were tearing through him. "I can't see you," he cried, reaching his hand out to find her.

"I'm here, my love," she said, flattening his palm to her cheek, trying to remain strong, though she was falling apart inside. "I promise I'm here."

"Don't leave me, Antoinette," he gasped.

"Never, Giles," she vowed, wondering where that damned doctor was. Her husband needed help! Didn't anybody care? "I'll never leave you."

"Antoinette," he said, directing his eyes straight at hers, although Annie could tell he was still not seeing her, "I love you."

"I love you too, Giles," she promised, her own body beginning to shake along with his.

"You have made me so…" he whispered, as he struggled to keep his head upright, "very happy."

"Giles," Annie pleaded through gritted teeth, as she saw the light begin to fade from his eyes, "Don't leave me!"

"Be…happy…Antoinette…" he whispered, as his head fell back against his pillow. "You deserve to be…happy."

"Giles!" Annie frantically called to him again. "Giles stay!" she sobbed as she lay her head against his chest. But though she repeated her sorrowful plea again and again, she knew he could not hear her. Her husband had already gone.

* * *

Annie rode home in absolute silence, staring out the rounded window the entire time. Giselle was seated across from her, weeping softly, mourning the dear, true friend who had turned her life around. She cuddled his sleeping daughter closely in her arms, vowing to him that she would do whatever it took to help the child and her mother get through this devastating loss. At the moment, however, it seemed that all the new widow needed was silence as she continued to stare out the window—not crying, barely breathing—only staring as they passed through the Paris roads.

 _Giles was dead._ The thought played again and again in Annie's mind. It had been coursing through her since that awful moment at the hospital when she had felt his chest go horribly still, his last breath taken, his heart beating no more. It had raged through her when the nurse removed her gently from his body, telling her that they had to send him to the morgue so that he could be prepared for a proper burial. It had propelled her when Richard and Moncharmin greeted her with consoling words and comforting embraces upon leaving his room. And it had deafened her as she climbed into the coach, wondering when the fog that surrounded her would lift and she would wake to discover this had all been a cruel, terrifying, dream.

This was all the Shah of Perisa's fault. The deception he had caused when he'd told her Erik was dead had set this entire day into motion. It had begun years ago, when she'd held the tangled strands of Erik's hair in her hands, and Giles had carried her in his arms to his home where he'd taken care of her and listened to her weeping and… _loved_ her despite her devotion to another man. He had brought light back into her days and joy into her heart. But now…now her world was dark. And it was _her_ fault. _She_ had insisted that Erik stay all those weeks ago, when he had been ready to go. She was a married woman, yet she visited Erik time and again, and allowed her ever present feelings for him come between her and the man she'd vowed to love and cherish for all of eternity. She had chosen to go down to confront Erik instead of just _telling_ her husband what was going on. And she had been the one not looking when the carriage…

 _Her husband was dead…_ the poisonous thought recoiled once again in her mind, readying itself for its next strike.

 _Giles was_ dead _._

At home, Giselle immediately took Alain into her arms, hugging him tightly and thanking the dancer who had stayed with him while she'd been at the hospital. Annie moved in a daze through her evening routine, washing Meg and feeding her without taking any sustenance for herself. And then, without a word to Giselle, she made her way up the stairs putting her daughter to bed—a task she often used to share with Giles.

 _But Giles was dead._

Once Meg was sleeping, Annie somehow made it to her room—the room she used to share with her husband. It seemed so strange now, she thought to herself as she stood in the doorway and gazed at the bed that suddenly seemed far too big. Just last night she had shared that bed with her husband—making love with and touching and kissing her husband—before blissfully drifting off to sleep in his protective embrace. That morning she had been wakened by his gentle touches, and hearing his words of love, had vowed to once again put him first in her life. But now she would have to sleep in that enormous, intimidating, deceptive bed alone. _Her husband was dead._

Never moving her eyes from the sheets that were still a bit crumbled from their morning affections, Annie reached behind her and closed the door.

"Annie, I'm so sorry," a lush, velvet voice murmured, and looking up, she saw Erik moving out of the shadows in the far corner of the room. She wished for a moment that she was surprised to see him, but truthfully, his presence did not really shock her. He was very deeply entwined in this tragedy.

"I heard the commotion at the opera house," he said, walking slowly toward her as she continued to stare at him and make no response. "I investigated and discovered what happened to Giles." Finally standing right in front of her, he placed his hands on her shoulders and vowed, "I promise, Annie, I'm here—and I will help you through this."

Despite herself, her heart instantly leapt. Erik was here. Everything was going to be alright, because Erik was here.

 _But her husband was dead._

Shaking her head, Annie moved backwards, out of his hold. "Erik, I can't do this right now," she told him plainly. "You don't belong here. You need to go."

"But Annie," Erik said in confusion. "I only want to help you…"

Shaking her head again, Annie repeated, "Just go."

Erik gave her one more sorrowful look, as the miserable expression on her face took him back to the night of her stepfather's attack. Once again, in her time of greatest agony, she was shutting him out of her life. Once more, she was pushing him away.

"If you need me, Annie," Erik told her quietly, before turning toward the window, "you know where I'll be." And silently as a cat, Erik slipped through her window and out into the night.

Annie stared at the window for a long moment after Erik was gone, though there was nothing there to see. Only darkness. Finally, though, she dragged herself onto the bed, cradling Giles's pillow in her arms. Curling herself into a fetal position, she did not cry, and she did not sleep—but only continued to stare, unseeing, into the void.

 **AN: :( Oh Giles. I'm so sorry you had to go...But at least in this story, you had a life. And for the most part, a happy one. (There's my apology for killing a character I had really grown to like, but who never had a chance of surviving this story!) But, OH, his death will have repercussions...**


	86. Chapter 86

CH 86

Heaven's tears dampened the musk of incense in the air as they lowered Giles into his final resting place. From his hidden spot behind a placid grove of trees, Erik could see the Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin huddled together, the latter blubbering loudly and blowing his nose into his handkerchief. Always the fool, Erik thought to himself, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.

A tall woman stood beside a taller man beneath a large black umbrella, her golden curls pulled away from her face, her sobs muffled by a crisply pressed white handkerchief. The three small boys that stood dutifully in front of her, dressed all in black as custom would dictate, were also all possessed of the same flaxen hair, and Erik surmised they must have been some relation to the departed. The red haired girl Erik had come to recognize as Giselle was nearby, holding a fussy Meg, her own young toddler a stoic soldier keeping watch while quietly clutching his mother's skirts, casting the occasional furtive glance at the blond boys who stood to his left.

The priest's monotone _"In nomine patri et filii et spiritu sancti…,"_ was answered with a forceful _"Amen,"_ from the gathered mourners. Only Annie remained silent.

Erik turned his attention back to the woman he loved. Dressed all in black, with a small bouquet of daisies held in her hand, she was staring into the large opening in the ground that was rapidly filling with mud as the persistent rain continued to fall. He had not seen her cry at all. She made no show of loud wailing, or mournful gnashing of teeth. She only stared, stony eyed as the coffin was planted in the dirt—her hollow expression cold—empty—nothing like the passionate girl he had always known.

Erik longed to go to her—to stand beside her and offer comfort. Her detached façade was not fooling him—he _knew_ Annie. He saw beneath her surface and understood the agony she was keeping walled up inside. She was once again the little girl who had been brutally attacked—grievously wounded—by her stepfather. She was dying inside—how could she not be? After all, she had _loved_ her husband.

He swallowed against the bitterness that had formed in his throat when he recalled her telling him just that on the very day the man had left this earth. She'd loved Giles—she had _chosen_ him. There'd been no mistaking her intentions that fateful day—to go back to her beloved family and leave Erik once again alone.

It had taken a moment for Erik to realize that when she'd pled with him to let her go, she'd meant forever. When the realization struck, he had once again contemplated the icy waters of the lake, knowing for certain that without her love, his life was surely already over. He'd been lost in his thoughts of saying goodbye to this world that held nothing for him now that his only reason for living had been stolen from him, when muffled screams and sounds of a commotion had wafted down from the opera house above.

Curious, despite himself, Erik crept up the steps, wondering who else was suffering in kinship with him on this, his final day on earth. That was when he'd realized tragedy had struck.

At first he'd thought it had been Annie, as the hysterical claims of her running into the street without paying any mind to the oncoming carriage reached his ears. Erik was certain he would no longer have any need of the lake—his heart momentarily stopping at the thought of Annie having perished—but soon enough he learned of Giles's selfless act of heroism which spared Annie but had most assuredly ended his own life. As the company sobbed and wept for the man who had only shown them kindness, Erik's thoughts turned to that man's wife. Surely he could no longer afford to be so selfish as to end his own suffering. His Annie would need him.

Erik waited until night had fallen, and then, under the cover of darkness, he crept away to the Giry home. It had been easy enough to slip inside the glass doors which opened into the master bedroom from the large balcony that overlooked the private grounds. Staying hidden behind the drapery, all he had to do was wait until Annie returned. He had known she would be broken. He had known her heart would be shattered. All he'd wanted to do was to help her pick up the pieces—to hold her as she grieved her beloved husband.

But Annie had ordered him to go.

Erik had respected her wishes—leaving that night, and staying away—once again having been pushed aside by the woman he loved. Yet he had needed to come today—to witness the burial—to see if Annie was, in fact, alright. And it was clear to him that she was not.

When the priest finally finished with his incense, and the coffin was completely in the ground, the mourners stepped forward to pay their last respects. Rose after rose was tossed upon the casket as friends and relations bade Giles Giry a final goodbye, before taking to their carriages to escape the rain. When Antoinette was the only one who had not offered some token of goodbye, the red haired girl approached her.

Looking up at her, and taking her daughter on her hip, finally Annie stepped forward. Keeping only one bloom for herself, Annie encouraged her daughter to toss the daisies into the ground—which the little girl gleefully did, opening her hands wide and watching the flowers fall. Annie rewarded her daughter with a kiss on the cheek and handed her back to Giselle so that they could take refuge in the carriage. And turning a final time toward her husband's grave, Annie kissed the blossom she held in her hand and let it drift into her husband's grave. Erik saw Annie's lips move quietly—most likely in a final _I love you_ —before she turned to join her daughter in the coach, looking over her shoulder one last time before ducking her head inside.

With a crack of the whip and a loud "hi-yah," the horses were spurred to life. Erik watched as the carriage moved on, carrying away his heart within it. He wondered if he would ever again be able to bridge the distance between them as the gravediggers came forward to begin filling Giles's final resting place with muddy shovels of dirt.

* * *

She did not cry as she sat in the carriage and watched the wet Parisian streets pass her by—she had no tears. They had not come as she heard the priest's chanted prayers. They eluded her while Giles's body was being lowered into the ground, even as her sister-in-law sobbed. They had not even arrived as she said her final farewell at the gravesite— _Goodbye Giles_ the only words she could think to summon to her lips.

Her tears had left her when her husband had, along with her ability to feel. There was no sorrow inside her. There hadn't been, since that awful moment when she felt his chest rise for its last time. There was no desperate agony as there had been when she was begging him to stay. Only emptiness resided within her—numbness that arrested her limbs and squeezed her heart tight, making the world around her fade into nothingness. Darkness was all she had to cling to. There was no more light.

"Are you ready," Giselle asked in a quiet voice, "for the repast, Antoinette?"

"Do I have a choice?" Annie asked, not lifting her head from where it rested against the window.

"I don't think so," Giselle answered. "People will want to offer their condolences—to comfort the grieving widow…"

"What if the widow has no need for their comfort?" Annie responded dryly, still staring at the falling rain.

Giselle pursed her lips together and said, "I would advise you to accept it, nonetheless. Giles would have expected you to be gracious…"

"Giles is dead," Annie said, effectively ending the conversation, which had been her intention. She knew exactly what her husband wanted. He told her himself with his final breath. He wanted her to be happy. But in order to feel happiness, first one had to be able to _feel_. And Annie simply no longer knew how.

"I will receive my guests," Annie assured Giselle, but the red haired girl made no answer, choosing to direct her attention to the children instead.

Annie had never seen the parlor crammed with so many people. She and Giles had not been the types to hold dinner parties or high society affairs on their property, and it struck her as darkly ironic that this enormous group of people had gathered in their home when the one person who truly belonged there was gone.

One by one, men and women in dark suits and somber dresses grasped her hands and offered their sincerest condolences on the loss of her husband. It did not take long for her to realize that no words were required of her. She merely had to nod her head in polite gratitude—then they would move on to comfort his grieving sister on their way to the buffet that had been prepared by the cook, or the bar to pour themselves a measure of whiskey.

Evening had fallen when the last of the guests had gone and Annie took the opportunity to sit a spell in the overstuffed leather chair. It was the same overstuffed chair in which she had once before mourned the loss of the man she loved, and as she gazed again into the fire, she felt once more as if her emptiness would consume her.

"Are you quite alright, Antoinette?" Annie heard from above, and she looked up to see Charlotte, Giles's older sister, standing beside her. She looked very much like her brother, with the same golden curls, currently swept up into a sedate chignon. Her bright blue eyes lacked the sparkle that could be found in her brother's however, and while Giles's skin had been ruddy and hale, her complexion was more drawn and pale, lending a severity to her features that Giles had never possessed.

"I am fine, Charlotte," Annie said with an attempt at a smile, nodding curtly in what she hoped was a clear dismissal. Conversation was the last thing in which Annie wished to engage at the moment and she wished her sister in law would just go. Charlotte still had _her_ husband to talk to.

"Yes, I must say," Charlotte responded, apparently not picking up on Annie's hint—or not caring, if she did—"that you are holding up remarkably well for a new widow. Why," she chuckled quietly to herself, "I don't think I've even witnessed you shed one tear."

Feeling the sting behind her remark, but wishing to be polite for her husband's sake, Annie remarked, "We cannot all be Monsieur Moncharmin, wailing our private grief from the rooftops."

"I dare say not," Charlotte agreed, having thought the man was making quite the spectacle of himself at the burial. "Still, one would only expect a widow to be in open mourning."

"I have never cared much for other people's expectations," Annie told her, looking back at the fire, and doing her best to suppress a sigh when Charlotte sat down on the settee across from her.

For a moment the two were quiet, both studying the flames that danced and popped in the hearth before them.

"The flowers were quite lovely," Charlotte commented after the extended silence had fooled Annie into believing that she might be granted a modicum of peace.

"They were," Annie nodded.

"Everyone tossing the finest of roses to send Giles on his way," Charlotte continued. Turning to face Annie, she said, "I notice you and my niece offered only daisies."

"Daisies were…special to my husband and myself," Annie said plainly, remembering the day their relationship had truly taken wing, only to come crashing down a little over a year later.

"That's… _quaint_ ," Charlotte remarked with a tight smile, "but don't you think my brother was at least worth a bouquet of red roses?"

Glancing with incredulity at her sister in law, Annie asked, "Do you truly expect me to measure my husband's worth in flowers?"

"Of course not," Charlotte retorted, "but public gestures matter."

"My gesture was not for the public," Annie held firm. "It was for my husband. And _he_ understands."

"I wish I could understand why you ran out in front of a coach and got my brother killed!" Charlotte snarled, her deep animosity breaking forth through her thin veil of cordiality.

Swallowing hard against her sister-in-law's harsh words, Annie told her in no uncertain terms, "No one wishes more than I that Giles had not followed me into the street that day."

"Do not be so sure of that!" Charlotte spat, her nostrils flaring as her own grief spilled forth in anger against the person she deemed responsible for her brother's death. " _I_ wish it with all my heart! Just as I wish he had never married you!" Rising from her seat and leaning over her, her voice swelling as she spoke, she continued, "He could have had any woman in Paris! Why on earth did he have to get involved with a ballet rat? He should have just counted you as another notch on his bedpost and then turned you away! Tell me Antoinette," she asked, her tirade having brought her husband and Giselle in from the neighboring room, "…did you trap him into marrying you by lying about being with child?"

"Charlotte," her husband called, aghast, as he closed the distance between them, "stop this instant!"

"Is that why he took you as his bride?" Charlotte railed on, tears of frustration now streaming down her face. "Because even on your wedding day I was sure that those orange blossoms you wore in your hair were a lie."

"That is quite enough!" her husband scolded, placing his hand on her arm, and attempting to drag her out of the room.

"Why?" She raged, as she glared at him. " _Her_ type is not known for their virtue."

"Charlotte, you are embarrassing yourself," her husband cautioned. "Leave her!" and finally gaining the upper hand on his wife, he pulled her, struggling the whole time, into the dining room. Before the door could close, muffling their still arguing voices, Annie heard her scream, " _You_ killed him, Antoinette Laramie! You killed my brother. You are not worthy of the name Giry!"

Suddenly, Annie could not breathe. The room was too hot, the air too stale, and Charlotte's hurtful words swirled around in Annie's mind.

"Antoinette," Giselle asked, concerned when she saw Annie clawing at the collar on her dress, "Antoinette, what's wrong?"  
Annie raised her hands to her ears to block out the deafening screams, the condemning words that had burst forth from Charlotte's lips, that only confirmed what Annie had known deep down in her core.

"Antoinette?" Giselle asked again when her friend made no reply.

"Giselle, I…" Annie panted, standing, but swaying slightly on her feet, "I have to go."

"What?" Giselle shook her head in confusion. "What do you mean you have to go?"

"I don't belong here, Giselle," Annie pleaded with her to understand.

"What are you talking about?" Giselle questioned, "Of course you belong here."

"No I don't," Annie shook her head. "Not anymore." Swallowing hard, she asked, "Will you watch Meg tonight?"

"What?" Giselle stuttered, "Of course, but where…"

"Away, Giselle," Annie told her. "I just have to get away. I…I'll be back—just please. I need some air…"

"Antoinette…this is madness."

"I know, Giselle" Annie nodded, as she headed toward the front doors. "But I just cannot be here right now." And pulling on the handle, she went out into the night.

* * *

Erik paced back and forth, back and forth, raking his hand through his hair as Annie's last words to him echoed in his head. _You don't belong here. You need to go._ And though he swore his only intention was to help her through her pain, he heard the words again, _No. Just go._

 _Just go._

Erik was sure those words would echo through his mind night after night for all of eternity. Time and again, he had heard tell how Giry had held her together when she'd thought _he_ had perished. Giry had put her pieces back together, she'd told him, and had brought a measure of happiness back into her life. She had accepted _his_ help, even going so far as to fall in love with him as he eased her through her grief. And yet when Erik had run to her, had begged her to let him see her through this, all he had heard from her was _just go._

He knew that Annie had just gone through a devastating trauma. He had seen that haunted look in her eyes this morning at the burial site. Things were not alright with her—she was falling apart on the inside. She claimed to have fallen apart in much the same way when she thought that _he_ had died. But then she allowed Giles to help her—she let him in—she accepted his comfort, his strength—his love. But now that Giles himself had passed away, she suddenly needed space. She would never allow Erik to live up to the man that Giles had been to her. She was forever pushing him away.

A rustle behind him pulled him out of his musings, and he turned to see Annie standing right there—at the entrance to the chamber by the lake. Was she really there, he asked himself, as he closed the distance between them, or had he conjured her up from his longings—an ephemeral image that would fade away the moment he reached for her? But when he was standing before her, he knew she was real, for he would never have conjured her with such an overwrought look in her eyes.

She was still dressed in the mourning clothes she had worn to the funeral—a long widow's gown in the deepest, truest black, with few embellishments save for a long row of buttons that trailed high up on her neck. The two topmost ones were unfastened and several strands of her hair had come loose from her bun to wisp around her face, giving her a slightly disheveled appearance. She seemed tired—exhausted, really—as if carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders had finally become to much for her and here she was—a refugee seeking shelter from a storm.

"Annie," he whispered her name in velvet tones, only to see her hand come up flat in front of her, as if to stop him.

"I don't want to talk, Erik," Annie told him, in that way of hers that left absolutely no room for argument. "I don't want to eat, and I don't want anything—not anything at all."

"I…understand," Erik responded with a nod, though confusion blazed through his mind.

"I just couldn't stay in that house, Erik," she said, walking past him to enter deeper into the chamber. "It was smothering me—suffocating me," she added, placing her hand upon her throat and swallowing "—making it so I could not breathe."

Erik made no response, just nodded again so that Annie would know that he was listening.

"I…I had to leave, Erik," she continued. "I had to go somewhere where I felt…safe."

Finally, she met his eyes, and the overwhelmed expression on her face made him want to gather her into his arms and protect her from the hell the world had put her through. But he knew she needed space—she needed time.

"Of course, you did the right thing in coming here," he promised her, "for here you shall be safe from what troubles you—I swear it. Anything you want—anything you need—you have only to ask, and I shall procure it for you."

"All I want," Annie said, shaking her head and looking away, "is to try and sleep. I haven't slept for days."

"By all means, Annie," Erik vowed, gesturing her toward the furs. "Make yourself comfortable. I…" he added awkwardly, knowing that she could not possibly be comfortable in that stiff, heavy dress, "shall give you some privacy to make yourself ready."

And with that, Erik turned and left the chamber, as Annie began to unbutton her dress.

When enough time had passed, for Erik to be sure Annie had been able to snuggle safely under the blankets, he quietly returned to the chamber, only to find her already asleep. The mourning gown was neatly folded into a pile and set carefully at the foot of the makeshift bed. She had loosed her hair from its bun, and her ebony curls floated freely about her face. Approaching slowly, careful not to make a sound, Erik bent at his knees and knelt on the ground before her, beholding an angel at rest. Sleep had swept away her harried expression, smoothing the lines of worry and fear that had etched themselves upon her face. The past several years melted away in her repose, and she was just as she had been when she was a child—sweet, beautiful, and so very precious to him.

He longed to wrap her tightly in his arms, keeping her safe in his protective embrace, but he knew that she had not come for that. She didn't want anything she had told him. She didn't _need_ anything except to try and sleep, to escape for a short time, the horrors of the day.

Rising to his feet Erik walked a few steps away, and stared once again at the swirling waters of the lake, realizing that finally, his wish had come true. She had finally come to him—had sought him out to give her shelter from the storm. And yet, even though his angel slumbered peacefully among the furs on which he usually laid his head—he still felt completely helpless.

 **AN: I know you feel helpless, Erik, but she went to you to feel safe! It's a start...**


	87. Chapter 87

CH 87

Erik woke suddenly from his uneasy slumber to the sound of moaning—desperate cries in the night, so like the ones he had heard all those years ago, when Annie's stepfather had attacked her. In a flash, he was at the furs, where Annie lay, thrashing and whimpering. Despite the chilly air, beads of perspiration dampened her forehead and tears streaked down her cheeks.

"Annie," Erik whispered, leaning over her, placing his hands on her shoulders.

"No," she cried, her head thrashing back and forth. "No!"

"Annie, wake up!" Erik urged, his voice louder now, growing in his desperation to save her from her nightmare.

"No!" Annie wailed. "Don't leave me!"

"Annie!" Erik shook her gently, his voice nearing a shout, "It's only a dream. I'm right…here."

Finally, Annie's eyes shot open. "E…E…Erik?" she asked, with heavy eyelids and a scratchy voice.

Relieved that her nightmare was over, Erik nodded, sitting down on the side of her makeshift bed. "Yes, it's only me, Annie. You," he sighed, running his fingers through his disheveled hair, "were having a bad dream."

Realization washed over her and she shuddered a bit at the memory. "Yes," she nodded. "I was."

Erik reached over and brushed her tangled black locks out of her eyes, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Annie shook her head even as she said, "It was about Giles. He was struggling to breathe and he… he was bleeding." Annie paused and took a deep breath. "And then…he was dead." A shudder ran through her as her voice became hysterical, "He _is_ dead. My husband is dead. And I was alone. I am alone…" Her lips began to tremble as her breath came in short gasps.

"Shhhh …" Erik gently a finger down her cheek, his heart breaking at the sight of her torment. "No, Annie. You're not. I'm here. I'm with you. I'll _always_ be with you."

Annie gazed at Erik. He'd said those words to her before—he'd promised to be with her forever. And yet, for a time, she had thought he was gone. And suddenly, the memory of that loss was just too much to bear. "Don't leave me, Erik!" She begged, frantically.

"Of course, I won't leave you, Annie," Erik assured her, sweetly. "I will be right over there," he gestured to the other side of the chamber.

"No," she pled, with desperate eyes. "Stay _here_ ," she gestured to the place next to her on the furs, "With _me_. Like you used to when we were children and I…needed you. Tonight I…" she added in a small voice, her eyes imploring him to grant her request, "I _need_ you."

Erik felt as if his heart would burst in his chest. His Annie _needed_ him. Finally, she was reaching out to him—pleading with him to hold her through the night and make her feel as if she wasn't all alone. It pained him that she thought she had to beg!

"I'll stay, Annie," he told her softly, again stroking her cheek tenderly to smooth out the lines of tension and fear that her nightmare had brought back to her face. "If you wish it."

And without a word, Annie lifted the edge of the furs, so that Erik could slip inside. Just like that, they were young again, on the run from the rest of the world, and Erik stretched out his body beside Annie's, taking her gently in his arms.

She burrowed her head against his chest, as he gingerly rubbed circles on her back, trying to calm her demons and help her return to her much needed slumber. "I'm here, Annie," he murmured soothingly. "Just tuck in and sleep, my sweet angel. I'm right here beside you. I will make everything all right." And softly, liltingly, he began to hum her song.

It wasn't long before Annie's breathing steadied and Erik could tell that sleep had taken her. Emotions flooded through his body, making his heart beat faster, and his blood course more rapidly through his veins. Memories from when they were children flashed in his mind. Sharing stories around a fire…running and laughing as they played hide and seek in their woodland cave…playing the violin as Annie danced so achingly beautifully in the starlight. Every daytime adventure, every nighttime jaunt, had eventually ended like this—with Annie curled up against him, tightly wrapped within his arms, letting the world around them melt away as they clung to one another and drifted off into peaceful slumber. But Erik knew he would be getting no sleep lying next to her like this tonight.

Annie came to him for comfort—to escape the pain of her husband's death—but they were no longer children, and her womanly body was wrapped only in a light weight shift. He cursed the villainy of his flesh but he could feel the warmth of her skin through the flimsy material, and it was setting his soul aflame. To hold her so intimately—to have her so close—it was all he had dreamed when he had been imprisoned in Persia. He could feel his ever present hunger for her beginning to grow, his thirst for her making his mouth go dry.

Breathing in deeply, the scent of her hair filled his senses as he willed his electrified body to calm down. Though she was right here—in his arms—their bodies separated only by her thin shift and his own light weight night clothes, he reminded himself that emotionally, she was still worlds away. She had just lost her husband. She had not come to his bed out of desire—she had come seeking comfort—solace from her grief. And that was what he would give her— _all_ he would give her. It was contemptible of him to even consider the possibility of anything more, and a true testament to his own twisted nature that when she sighed softly in her sleep, he felt a thrill run through his body. It was wrong— _he_ was wicked—but she felt so _good_ in his arms.

Erik was nearly intoxicated by her nearness, and despite the war he was waging with his body, he found himself scattering whisper soft kisses against her hairline, her temple, her eyelids. "Oh, my angel," he hummed softly, as he placed another fleeting kiss against her cheek. "My sweet, beautiful, wild rose."

Erik's eyes were closed, once again drinking in her essence, getting lost in her warmth, when he felt Annie's head shift upward and lightly brush his wandering lips with her own, sending icy shivers hurtling down his spine, the sweetness and tenderness of her kiss making Erik sob with ecstasy.

"Annie," he murmured thickly, his voice trembling, his body weak.

"Shhh…" she hushed, placing a finger to his lips, before claiming them again, the tip of her tongue darting between them, urging him to deepen their kiss. Swept away, Erik had no choice but to comply, expressing, without words, his great love and desire for her that had been denied for far too many years. His hands drifted from Annie's back to her mane of thick dark waves, his fingers tangling in them, pulling her mouth ever closer against his.

Annie sighed, and Erik felt her pressing her body tightly against his, allowing her hand to trail down and rest on his buttock. He knew his desire must be plain to her, and for a moment his heart was gripped with fear that he might alarm her with his wantonness. But when she shifted her hips sensuously against his, causing his entire body to shudder and a whimper to fall from his lips, he knew his arousal had not offended her.

Their lips were still joined in blissful exploration when Erik felt Annie begin to fumble with the buttons on his night shirt, pushing the thin fabric away to expose his tortured flesh. With a soft moan, she pulled her mouth away from his, only so that it could travel down the length of his throat on its way to his chest, placing fevered kisses all along the heated expanse of his skin. Erik felt as if he were melting as her tongue traced a tantalizing path along every scar, every blemish that crisscrossed his skin, sucking in a loud, harsh breath when he felt her teeth graze against one of his pebbled nipples.

Emboldened by her actions Erik let his fingers trace the contours of her curves, pulling her shift upwards as his hand trailed back to rest on her hip. Not wanting to push too far, he let the fabric remain there, pooled around her waist, as he marveled at the silken skin he kneaded beneath his fingers.

With a sigh at his timidity, Annie pulled briefly out of his embrace, the furs falling away from her as she sat upright before him. Gazing deeply into his eyes, she reached down to the hem of her shift and pulled the unwanted barrier over her head, laying herself bare to him.

Erik took in a sharp breath as he beheld her exquisite loveliness. The youthful body he had loved so well had been replaced with even more alluring womanly curves and a new softness that made his mouth water. The strength and grace of her dancer's form was still there, however, and though Erik adored the sight of her, it was almost painful not to touch.

He brought trembling hands first to the fullness of her breasts, rounder and more womanly than he had remembered. Squeezing gently, he purred, "Always so beautiful, Annie." When he was rewarded with a quiet moan, he brought his lips to their softness and nuzzled his head against them, taking one of the rosy pearls—which were a greater treasure to him than all the jewels he'd brought back from Persia—between his teeth. When Annie threw her head back with a loud gasp, Erik sucked her more deeply into his mouth, using his fingers to massage her other breast as he did so.

When the pleasure threatened to overwhelm, Annie slid down so that she could once again lie beside Erik in the furs. Tracing the line of his cheek with shaking fingers, she gazed deeply into his glowing golden eyes as she reached down and grasped the waistline of his pajama pants. Understanding her silent nod, Erik lifted his hips, so that she could push the soft fabric down away from his hips, releasing his aching manhood from its confines. Once Erik had wriggled the pants entirely off his legs, they wrapped their arms tightly around one another, skin meeting skin, lips meeting lips, as Annie hooked one leg around his thighs.

Erik tightened his grip around her waist, and with one powerful thrust he was inside her. Mouths open in an expression of awe, and gazes locked together in wonder, they began to move. Tenderly stroking each other's faces, they rocked back and forth slowly, delicious heat ever building and filling their cores. Annie clutched at Erik's back, drawing his body closer, as they made love, pressing him more deeply within her. A symphony of the sweetest, most euphoric sounds were loosed between them, neither knowing who was moaning or who was sighing, but each quite willing to allow the passionate reverberations wash over them for eternity. When Annie began to tremble in Erik's arms, he knew her moment would be soon. His pace grew faster, and more erratic, his hands placed firmly on Annie's hips to be sure to carry her with him with every motion. When Annie cried out his name and convulsed wildly around him, Erik found his own release, pouring his pleasure into her with a loud, guttural roar.

They clung to each other, as they each came down from their fevered peaks. Erik once again became aware of the sweet scent of Annie's hair and the soft pressure of her breasts as they pressed against his chest. He opened his eyes and beheld her, burrowed there against him, her eyes closed serenely, her lips swollen with their kisses. Never had there been a more beautiful sight in all the world.

Annie. _His_ Annie. He had lived only for this day—fantasizing again and again about that blessed moment when he could be one with her again, body, heart and soul. Dreams of her had been what had gotten him through the captivity in Persia. Visions of her beautiful eyes, her soft lips, her open arms, had sustained him and made him want to come home, to tell her that he loved her and never wanted to let her go again. But when he had found her with Giles—and with a child born of the union—he thought those dreams had forever been shattered. But now …

He knew it was still too soon to tell her of his love. She had just lost her husband, and regardless of their passion, he knew Annie would need a little more time—to mourn; to grieve; to let go. But still—she had come to him when she'd needed to feel safe. And she had welcomed him into her body with open arms, telling him with her actions, if not her words, that soon, she would be his.

Erik gazed at her once more as she dozed in the bliss of the ecstasy they had just shared. He shifted to his back, pulling her head to rest securely on his chest. She murmured a bit, in her slumber, but Erik only whispered, "Shhh, my beautiful angel, my sweet, wild rose. I'm right here beside you. Everything is all right."

He watched her resting, body curled tightly against him, her head snugly on his chest, and he knew at that moment that he was holding his whole world in his arms. When her breathing had steadied and he was sure she was asleep, he whispered "I love you." And with that, Erik closed his eyes, and drifted off beside her.

* * *

Wakefulness stirred Annie's soul and as her mind played a tug of war with consciousness, the first thing she became aware of was an overwhelming sense of warmth. It was not an uncomfortable, prickling heat, but rather a general feeling of well being that made her want to wrap the furs more tightly around herself as she sighed contentedly and snuggled more deeply into the big, strong arms that enveloped her.

Annie's eyes shot open with a start. She was not in her own sunny bedroom, but rather a dark chamber lit only by the few candles that had remained burning while she'd slept. There was no soft downy bed beneath her, but rather animal furs spread on a dirt floor. The gurgle of water called to her from the rushing lake in the distance, and curled around her quite naked waist was an arm attached to a lean, wiry frame.

The firm, sinewy chest that pressed tightly against her back was the same one into which she had buried her head countless times before, and the strong arms around her had held her close, night after night, keeping her safe from all harm. She was well acquainted with the lips that pressed against the back of her neck, but none of these belonged to her husband.

No, her _husband_ was dead.

And she had spent the last night making love to Erik.

As Annie stared off into the barely visible mist rising off the lake, she let her mind wander back to the night before. She had only come here seeking comfort—a safe escape from the chaos that filled her mind when she was in her home—her _husband's_ home. Erik had been the perfect gentleman, choosing to sleep on the cold, hard dirt, so that she could have the furs to herself. When her nightmare took her, he had been by her side in an instant—comforting her, promising her that he would be nearby, that he would keep her safe. But nearby hadn't been enough for her. She had begged him to stay with her—to hold her as when they had been children.

But they were no longer children.

Annie recalled the moment she knew she would not be able to resist the draw of his lips—the allure of his toned, lightly muscled frame beside her—his firm but gentle arms around her. He'd been so very tenderly trying to quiet her fears, soothing her with tender caresses and soft, sweet kisses to the top of her head. But there had been so many years of longing between them—so many nights filled with unsated desire—that she simply could not hold back. She'd turned her face upward to capture his lips, and their bodies had done the rest.

Soon she had been clutching him to her, pressing against him as he moved within her—consumed by the flames of the unquenchable fire he had always ignited inside her.

As Giles lay cold in the ground.

How easily she had given herself over to Erik—how quickly she had succumbed to her need for him. Her husband—the father of her child—had not even been buried an entire day before she had found herself in Erik's bed.

But then again, she thought, feeling the cool subterranean air seep into her belly, turning the warmth to ice, it wasn't as if she should be surprised. _Her type is not known for their virtue._

"Annie?" she heard Erik question in a scratchy voice as he stirred behind her. "Oh Annie," he said again, his arms pulling her closer against him. "You _are_ here."

A cold smile passed her lips before she rolled onto her back so that she could face him. "I spent the night with you, Erik," she answered. "Where else would I be?"

"I thought…" Erik said softly, reaching forward to stroke her hair, tentatively brushing a stray tendril away from her face, "I thought perhaps it was just a dream. That when I woke, you would be gone—dissolved into the night—like so many times before."

Annie gazed at him, and for a moment, the vulnerability in his expression squeezed at her heart. Immediately, she was moved to tell him she was not going anywhere—that she was his, she had always been his, and that she would remain so for the rest of her life. But then, Charlotte's cruel words suddenly slammed against the walls of her mind, ricocheting back at her again and again. _You are not worthy of the name Giry!_

Annie chuckled to herself darkly, realizing how very true her sister-in-law's words were. She was never very suited to walk with Giles in the sunshine—her soul had long ago been claimed by darkness "No, Erik," she responded in low, dark tones. "It was all _very_ real."

Swallowing against the lump that had lodged in his throat at her sultry tone, Erik felt his passions stir again almost instantaneously when Annie pressed her naked pelvis against his. "Where…where do we go from here, Annie?" he asked in a hollow voice, his eyelids fluttering closed as she reached her hand up to rest on the back of his neck. "What do we do now?"

"Exactly what we have both wanted to do for so very long," she purred back, pulling him into a deep and passionate kiss as he shifted his body to lay atop her. And as she and Erik once again gave in to their desires, Annie heard her husband's words echo in her mind. _Be happy…you deserve to be happy._

 **AN: But, oh, Annie…is this** ** _really_** **going to make you happy?**


	88. Chapter 88

CH 88

"Good morning, Giselle!" Annie chirped, as she walked through the heavy double doors of the Giry home. Giselle looked up from where she was feeding Meg breakfast, while Alain played quietly at her feet. At the sound of her mother's voice, Meg spat the bottle out of her mouth, and began to reach out her little arms.

"Antoinette," Giselle said in relief. "You're home!"

"Of course I'm home!" Annie agreed, lifting Meg up and into her arms, giving her a few warm cuddles before taking her over to the settee to finish her feeding. "I had to see my daughter!"

"Well, I'm glad to hear it," Giselle said, a hint of alarm in her voice. "Where were you last night? Meg missed you terribly."

"She did?" Annie asked, looking down at her daughter in dismay. "Momma's sorry, darling," she said, stroking the nursing girl's cheek. When the infant only snuggled in and suckled harder on her mother's breast, Annie smiled toward Giselle, and said, "Obviously all is forgiven."

"You never answered my question, Antoinette," Giselle pressed. "Where were you?'

"I was out, Giselle," Annie said, irritation creeping into her voice now. "I told you I needed space."

"But all night?" Giselle inquired. "I was worried sick about you."

"There was much that I needed to work through, Giselle," Annie countered, fighting back a grin as she recalled exactly how she had worked things through in Erik's bed the previous night before falling into the most peaceful slumber she had known in days. And then again when they had awoken in the morning.

"Charlotte and her family left this morning before your return," Giselle informed her, a bit of discomfort in her voice. "They found it highly irregular that you were not home for breakfast."

"I daresay there is much that my sister-in-law and her family find irregular about me," Annie responded nonchalantly.

"Well, staying out all night on the day of your husband's funeral was not exactly helping matters!" Giselle admitted, sheepishly.

Tamping down the urge to scream that it was not Charlotte's or anyone else's business where she was last night, Annie responded coldly, "Helping _matters_ was never in the forefront of my mind. My sister-in-law is entitled to her opinions. Thankfully, my husband never shared them, and I simply do not care."

Giselle exhaled a heavy breath, but said no more, getting the distinct impression that it was best, at the moment, for her to stay out of Antoinette's affairs.

When Meg was finished eating, Annie gave her one last cuddle before rising to hand her back to Giselle. "I need to go upstairs to get changed for work."

"Work?" Giselle asked, surprised to hear the word come out of her friend's mouth. "Are you sure about that, Antoinette? No one expects you to be returning to the opera house quite so soon. Surely the managers would not fault you for taking some time…."

"I am not returning to work for the managers, Giselle," Annie cut her off. "There is a production to run and ballerinas who need me to keep them whipped into shape."

"But Antoinette," Giselle protested, worried that her friend was not giving herself proper time to grieve. "Giles…"

"Is dead," Annie finished her sentence, a stony resolve in her eyes. "And before he died," she added, softening just a bit, "he told me he wanted me to go on with my life. He wanted me to be happy."

"Alright…" Giselle responded, taken a bit aback by Antoinette's words.

"I am simply following through with my husband's wishes—getting on with my life and doing my job." With a smile, Annie nodded, "There is nothing to worry about."

"Alright, Antoinette," Giselle reluctantly agreed. "If you say so."

* * *

When Annie arrived back at the opera house, it was just about the time the dining hall would be serving lunch. Knowing it would be futile to attempt to corral her dancers into a rehearsal right then, she decided to just consider the morning a loss. A smile spread across her face as she realized that a late start for rehearsals would give her some time to sneak down and see Erik. It would be a short visit, she knew, as she took off in the direction of Box 5, but she found that even though she had slept the night in his arms, she was already beginning to crave his touch again.

Her progress, however, was halted when she quite literally ran into Monsieur Moncharmin in the hall.

"Madame Giry," he said, with a surprised chuckle, extending his arms to catch her by the shoulders. "I was not expecting to see you here…."

"Monsieur Moncharmin," Annie responded, never having been comfortable enough with him to use his given name, "I work here. Where else would I be?"

"Oh, well," the blustering man answered with an awkward smile, "Monsieur Richard and I assumed you would need a bit more time to…um… _compose_ yourself."

"I assure you, Sir," Annie responded, holding her head high. "I am perfectly well composed."

"I can see that, Madame Giry," Moncharmin nodded politely, "But you are newly a widow and…"

"Life goes on," she informed him, surprising him with her determination. "And my husband made it very clear he wanted me to continue to live mine. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a job to do."

Her amorous mood ruined by her encounter with the bumbling manager, Annie stalked off to the rehearsal room, even as Moncharmin called after her. She would just have to wait to see Erik after rehearsals were done.

Arriving at the rehearsal room, she expected it to be dark and empty. When she opened the door, however, she was surprised to find Madame Delacroix readying the room for an afternoon with the ballerinas.

"Madame," she asked, in shock. "What are you doing here?"

Looking up, Madame Delacroix regarded Annie with surprise before responding, "I suppose I could ask you the same question."

"I work here," Antoinette reminded her.

"Of course you do, dear," Madame Delacroix smiled. "I was the one who suggested you for the job. But you are in mourning now, and I was called in to cover. After all, somebody needs to keep these dancers on their toes." Chuckling a bit at her own joke, Madame Delacroix went back about her business of setting up for rehearsals.

Dismayed by the fact that Madame had not seemed to get the message that her services were not necessary, Annie pressed, "Thank you very much, Madame, but as you can see, I am here, so there is no need for coverage."

"I can see that you are here," Madame Delacroix responded, pausing for a moment in her preparations, "But I know that you should not be."

Exasperated, Annie asked, "With all due respect, why on earth shouldn't I be, Madame?"

"My dear," the ballet mistress said gently, taking Annie's hand, "your husband has just died. That is a devastating blow to one so young, who appeared to be very much in love with her spouse."

"Appeared to be?" Annie asked, taking her hand back in imagined offense. "Madame Delacroix, of course, I loved my husband! Very much!"

"I know you did, Antoinette," the kindly old ballet mistress responded. "And you had every reason to believe you would have many, many years to love him and raise your child together. That is why you must take your time recovering from this horrible loss."

"Madame Delacroix," Annie insisted, "Our child is exactly the reason I cannot spend my life wallowing in grief. Giles's last wish was for me to be happy—for the sake of our daughter. I have a job to do, Madame—so I am here to do it. You can go back to enjoying your well deserved retirement."

"I shall enjoy my retirement," Madame Delacroix smiled, "as soon as I am certain _my_ job here is done. I have an obligation, Antoinette," the older lady continued, "not only to the managers who called me back in, but to the dancers, who need _clear headed_ leadership right now, and to my old friend Clarice, who would not think very kindly of me if I allowed her only child to do something I knew was not good for her. Go home, Antoinette," Madame urged her. "Cry for your husband. Grieve for him. Spend time with that beautiful young girl who only has one parent left. And then, Antoinette, you can come back to your role as ballet mistress, and I will leave you to it. But for now, you don't belong here."

Annie stared at her predecessor dumbfounded for a moment, before protesting through gritted teeth, "Madame Delacroix, I am _fine_ —and perfectly capable of doing my job!"

"And you will be both fine and perfectly capable of doing your job _after_ you return from your time off," the formidable woman said, with a cool smile on her face, and just like that, the matter was settled.

Feeling as if she were about to explode in anger, Annie left the room without another word. Storming off, she vowed that she would pummel the next person who deigned to speak to her before she could get to Box 5. She was in _no_ mood to talk.

"This is ridiculous!" she blurted as she charged into the chamber beneath the opera house, stalking over to one of the red-velvet covered chairs and flouncing heavily down upon it without so much as a word of greeting for Erik.

"What is ridiculous, Annie?" Erik asked, rising from where he had been kneeling before the lake, working on his boat while replaying the events of last night again and again in his mind. Crossing over to where she sat, he took a close look at her. Discerning that she seemed to be physically fine, he took a seat in the chair next to her. "What has happened?" he asked, reaching for her hand.

"This…place!" she spat, rising up again, and stalking off toward the lake. When she reached the water, she turned swiftly on her heel and informed him, "They won't let me work!"

"They _fired_ you?" Erik asked in shocked outrage.

"They might as well have," Annie told him. "They are forcing me to take time off!"

"What?" Erik asked, confused. "Who?"

"The managers, of course!" Annie sneered, her nostrils flaring, fire in her eyes. "And, Madame Delacroix!"

"Madame Delacroix?" Erik asked, surprised. "Didn't she retire?"

"She did but they brought her back to fill in for me…" Annie informed him,

beginning to pace in a circuitous route around the chamber. "'You're a widow now,' they said. 'You need time,' they said. 'You need to grieve.'" Suddenly, Annie rounded to face Erik, shouting, "How dare they presume to know what _I_ need? How dare they decide what I require to be happy?"

 _Be…happy…Antoinette…_ her husband had begged her with his dying breath. How could she be happy if everyone kept forcing her to focus on her loss?

Turning to face the lake, Annie suddenly felt an overwhelming wave of sorrow wash over her. She wrapped her arms around her chest, feeling for a moment as if she would not have the strength to remain standing another minute. _Giles,_ she begged in her mind, _why did you leave me if you want me to be happy?_

Just as she began to sway, she felt Erik's strong arms wrap tightly around her, bolstering her, as a garden stake did for a fledgling plant. "I'm here, Annie," he murmured into her ear. "I'm right here."

And feeling Erik's stalwart support, Annie took a deep breath and knew she would not fall.

Turning to face him, but not moving out of his embrace, Annie was calmer now. Looking up to meet his golden eyes she said, "I just want to get on with my life, Erik. To do my job—to raise my daughter. Why can't they see that I am alright?"

Erik gazed down at the love of his life—the woman with whom he had made love the night before—the girl who had saved his life all those years ago—and he knew with absolute certainty that she was not alright. Despite her insistence that she was fine, there was sadness in her every expression, and the same detachment in her eyes that he remembered seeing when she had been attacked by her stepfather. And yet, he also knew, with every fiber of his being, that she did not need to hear any of that right now. She did not need for him to fix her. She just needed him to be there.

"You must admit, Annie," Erik began, hoping she might see some measure of reason in his words, "that it is highly unusual for someone to recover so quickly from such tremendous shock. I take it that most people would need a little time to get their bearings before returning to their normal routine."

"Erik," she responded, frustration still evident in her tone, "I would hope you'd know by now that I am not like most people."

"I know that with absolute certainty," he assured her, raising a finger to gently stroke her cheek. "You are the rarest of blooms—my wild dancing rose. The absolute embodiment of true loveliness—the perfect blend of beauty and grace—yet, still so _strong_ and others don't know that you can take on the most volatile of storms and still remain standing. But _I_ know you, Annie. You may sway and bend a bit with heavy winds, but you will never break. You are anything _but_ ordinary."

When Annie's eyes closed and her lips parted slightly, Erik was powerless to do anything other than bring his mouth to hers, claiming the kiss he had been craving since she had left him earlier that morning. "But still, Annie," he hummed once they had parted, shaking and breathless from the force of their desire, "you should feel free to take what you need to grieve your husband. Time…" he kissed her again, tenderly, "space… _whatever_ it is that you need."

"What if," she asked him seductively, running her index finger along his lower lip, causing him to moan, as tiny tingles ran down his back, "all I need is you?"

Her words sounding like music to Erik's ears, he returned a breathy whisper, "Then by all means, Annie. Take me." And tangling his fingers in her long black waves, Erik devoured her lips as they lowered themselves to the lakeshore.

* * *

Their lovemaking had been passionate—urgent. Loud cries had spilled forth from their lips and the waves of pleasure that washed over them had been almost enough to completely consume them. Afterward, they'd collapsed into one another's arms, certain that they would never again so much as move another muscle, their bodies totally languid and satisfied from the union they had just shared. Yet, as Annie lay there, curled up tightly against Erik's naked body, she found that she quite enjoyed the way his fingers trailed lazily up and down her spine. Sensations were slowly beginning to build inside her again and she was just about to lift her head to capture his lips when he murmured, "I finished the boat this morning, Annie."

It took Annie a second to process what he was saying, but eventually, she responded with excitement, "Oh, your boat! That's right! You were working on it when I came in."

"Actually," he smiled, tapping her nose playfully with his finger, "I was putting on the finishing touches just as you arrived. Would you like to see?"

"Of course!" Annie exclaimed, jumping up out of his arms, pulling on his shirt as she did so. "Show me!"  
For a moment, it seemed a bit surreal that this woman for whom he had yearned and ached so long was now bouncing around before him, clad only in his button down shirt, and eager for him to show her his latest project. He found it very difficult to fight off the urge to pull her right back down onto his lap and reclaim his garment so that he could show her, once again, something he hoped was far more exciting than his little seafaring vessel. He forced himself to control his desires, however, and pulled on his trousers as he stood up beside her.

"It's right this way," he said, gesturing toward the little dock he had built on the edge of the lake.

Annie could see the small, gondola shaped boat from where they were standing, but still, she took his hand and they walked the short distance so that they could inspect it up close.

It was not large, big enough for only two passengers, but Erik had done a beautiful job with the spare wood he had found. He had stained the boat a rich dark brown, and he must have somehow made it watertight, because even though it bobbed along with the small ripples on the lake, there was not a drop of moisture lurking inside the curved hull. He had, however, placed several pillows along he boat's bottom—and Annie thought she recognized them as props from one of last year's productions. A long pole had been elegantly carved and smoothed, and it lay on the shore beside the vessel. Crouching down, she trailed her fingers lovingly down it's length.

"It's just like my walking stick, Erik," she said, in wonder.

"Yes," Erik nodded, pleased that she had recognized the design. "I need it to steer the boat."

"Just like in Venice," she smiled up at him, and again, his heart leapt as she brought to mind another one of their childhood dreams. "Remember how we promised," she asked him, glancing up at him from over her shoulder, "that we would one day ride in a boat just like this, gazing up at the stars and listening as all around us we heard the swell of sweet, sweet music?"

"How could I forget, Annie?" He asked her, kneeling down beside her and placing a gentle hand on her back.

"Let's do it now, Erik!" She exclaimed, her eyes glistening with excitement. "We have the lake and we have the gondola. We may not have stars…"

"But your eyes sparkle just as brightly," he whispered softly, bringing a soft blush to her face.

"And we both know," she added with a smile, "that you are capable of creating the most beautiful music."

"I think I am capable of doing anything with you as inspiration," he murmured, running a gentle finger down her cheek.

Annie's heart leapt in her breast at his touch, and for a moment emotions strong and dangerous threatened to overwhelm. But before they were able to completely take hold, she grabbed his hand and pulled him into the boat.

"Come on, Erik!" she said with a giggle.

"Annie!" he gasped, "we're hardly dressed!"

"Who cares?" she asked. "We're dressed enough. Besides, what need do we have for clothes?"

Erik watched Annie as she climbed into the boat before him, he had to admit he greatly enjoyed the sight of her only wearing his dress shirt, her shapely dancer's legs quite visible below the hem. Erik took his place behind her, at the boat's stern, and reached down to untie the rope that held them in place. Giving a swift push with his pole, he set them afloat.

Annie sat at the front of the boat, her legs tucked beneath her, gazing out at the dark water before them. A small lantern he had attached to the bow dimly lit their path, and Annie's eyes were rapt with attention as the walls of the chamber closed in around them and transformed the surrounding passage to a narrow tunnel. The light from the lantern caused the stone walls to glisten, as if they were encrusted by diamonds, and flickering shadows made it seem as if mystery and adventure could be found around every corner. Annie's gasps of surprise and gaze of wonder warmed Erik's heart, reminding him of their adventures of old, making him even more excited to discover even more of this new, unexplored realm.

When the walls opened up again, they found themselves at the opening of another chamber on the opposite side of the lake. This one was even bigger than the one they knew, and there were remnants of old beds and other furnishings strewn about it, some discarded clothing balled up in the corners.

"They must have occupied this chamber during the commune," Erik muttered as he took in their surroundings.

"Why would they have come so far into the cavern?" Annie asked, peering out into the chamber as well.

"Perhaps it afforded them more security…" Erik commented. Steering the boat close to the shore of the lake, Erik stuck his pole in the ground to keep them still. Once they were secure, Erik climbed out of the boat, offering his hand to Annie to help her out, before pulling the little vessel up on the shore. Hand in hand they walked around the cavern. Natural rock walls compartmentalized the space into distinct sections—almost like the rooms of a house—and arches curved the ceiling, causing even the smallest of sounds to echo around them. Toward the back of the chamber, there was a wide open section where stalactites hung from the ceiling, which reminded Annie of the musical protrusions of their cave in the forest.

"You could truly build a home here, Erik," Annie commented in awe, standing in the center of the vast chamber while Erik investigated something on the far wall. "A real home—with rooms and furniture…"

"And apparently," Erik added, pushing on a section of wall in front of him, "a front door." With just the smallest bit of effort, the wall in front of Erik gave way and light from the alley to the side of Rue Auber spilled into the chamber.

"Erik!" Annie gasped, hurrying toward him, "How did you know?"

"I didn't," Erik admitted, "but I noticed a very thin sliver of light, so I suspected."

"A front door," Annie commented with a smile.

"Lakeside property," Erik quipped.

"A home!" Annie gushed in excitement, her eyes glittering as she met his golden eyes. "Your first real home!"

"I've had one before," Erik said, looking down sheepishly as he took her hand.

Once again, an uncomfortable emotion began to stir in Annie's chest. Erik and Annie _had_ once shared a home—a beautiful home. It did not have rooms and a door, but they filled with laughter and music and…

But when that home had been threatened—when they decided to leave—all of their happiness began to fall apart. Eventually Annie had found a new home—a happy home, with striking rooms, two heavy front doors, filled with joy and sunshine—but one of which Erik had not been a part. But now… now she dreaded being in the home which seemed gloomy, and dark, and _empty_. She was no longer certain she belonged there. But if not there, where _did_ she belong? _You are not worthy of the Giry name!_ her sister in law's words rang loudly in her ears. _I don't know why he ever married you!_

"Erik," she said, suddenly sober, remembering that her daughter was most definitely a Giry, "I have to go. I have to get home to Meg."

"Yes, Annie," Erik said awkwardly, pulling the door to the outside closed again, "I will take you back."

In the gondola, they were once again quiet, but this time Erik got the renewed impression that Annie was not alright. She did not smile—she did not even seem to be truly seeing what was going on around her. She only stared off into the darkness—lost in her own thoughts.

Had he pushed too hard? Had he said more than he should have? He loved her so much, and it was so plain to him that their future was to be spent together. But she had just lost her husband. He knew she needed more time. He had to be careful not to press for too much too fast—because if he did, he could lose her. And that would surely kill him.

When they reached the open chamber, Erik helped Annie out of the boat, and she quickly changed into her dress.

"Will I see you again tomorrow, Annie?" Erik asked her quietly as she was about to turn to go.

Looking back at Erik, Annie noted the almost forlorn look in his eye as he questioned her—as if he were bracing himself for her to say no. She could not name the emotion that suddenly made her heart hurt as she gazed at the sadness in his eyes, but without a word, she took his face into her hands and brought his head to hers for a tender, searing kiss.

"You just try to keep me away!" she told him. And with a wink, she turned and made her journey back up to Box 5.

 **AN: Well...I think Erik just found the perfect place for a house by the lake. And Annie thinks she's fine-but she's the only one!**


	89. Chapter 89

CH 89

And so the next week passed, with Annie leaving her home for 'work' every morning, even though she was supposedly on leave. She became adept at maneuvering the halls of the opera hosue at times when no one was looking, making certain not to run into Monsieur Moncharmin or Madame Delacroix in her travels. She employed the aid of a long black cloak, and would raise the hood to obscure her identity so that no one she knew would recognize her. She had no desire to discuss her reasons for being there with anyone on the staff.

Because, of course, her reason for being there was Erik. Each day she would slip inside Box 5 using the key she had made on Giles's latest business trip, and float down the stairs that would bring her to Erik. He would always greet her with open arms, and it was never long before they found themselves making love on the furs, on the ground, and one rather adventurous time, even in the boat. Their hunger for each other never seemed to fade, and Annie had spent far too many years battling with her desires for him. Now that he was back, and there was nothing and no one to stand in their way, she refused to deny herself even one passionate kiss, or one searing touch. Her husband had told her to be happy, and the times she spent with Erik, tangled in passion's embrace, were among the happiest that she knew. Only then did the emptiness not threaten to consume her—and so she gave in to her need again and again, for she found that she relished those moments of feeling fully alive.

But they did not spend all their time in carnal delights—for Erik had a home to build. Every day, after recovering from their initial distractions, Erik and Annie would climb into the boat and sail off to the newly discovered chamber to work on setting up Erik's new living space. With his genius at work, the abandoned remnants of furniture they'd found within were quickly turned into finer things. And old wooden cargo trunk was built into a table for example, to go with the chairs from Box 5 that Erik had transported over in the boat. A brand new coat rack stood near the make-shift dock for Erik and Annie to hang their cloaks. And their beloved market place furs were now spread upon a repurposed bed, big enough for two—the strength and comfort of which Erik and Annie enthusiastically tested, of course. Thoroughly and repeatedly.

Annie was determined to help Erik build when she was there with him, sometimes earning her splinters, or smashed fingers.

"Damn!" Annie swore, as the heavy hammer came down hard on her thumb.

"Annie?" Erik called, dropping his tools and hurrying over to where Annie sat, eyes scrunched up in pain, her thumb throbbing where it was covered by the fingers of her other hand. "Come now," Erik coaxed. "Let me see."

Annie opened her fingers, revealing the red, swollen digit and bracing herself for the teasing that was sure to come. Surprising her, however, Erik did not joke about her being a rather klutzy ballerina, but instead brought her hand to his mouth, touching the sore finger to his lips and bestowing on it a gentle kiss.

"There," he asked quietly, "Is that better?"

Much to her surprise, it was. "Where did you learn to do that Erik?" she asked, knowing that he himself had never known such comforts as a child.

"I just remembered," Erik said quietly, not looking up to meet her gaze, but choosing instead to continue to stare at her wounded thumb "—that night we escaped from the gypsies—how you took care of me."

Eyes narrowing in confusion, Annie said, "I daresay I never kissed you that night, Erik. We were only 12 years old—you probably would have passed out in disgust."

"I wouldn't have," he told her simply, a blush rising to his cheeks as he remembered how, even then, he had been half in love with her. "But whether or not you kissed me, you were so careful—so gentle—so…tender. I had never known that type of care in my life, Annie, but I know it went a long way in healing my pain."

Annie stared back at Erik, at a loss for words. That had been a lifetime ago—so much had passed between then and now. Yet, had not his tenderness just taken away her hurt, replacing the throbbing of her thumb with a longing that now resided in her heart?

Annie did not know what to say, so she instead bent her head low, bringing it to Erik's and using her lips to instead capture his in a kiss.

"Thank you, doctor," she said, smiling sweetly when she pulled away. "You have always known how to affect me with a kiss." With a playful chuckle, she kissed him again, and soon Erik was carrying her to the bed, where they once again engaged in their favorite form of therapy.

To keep up her ruse, however, of resuming her duties at the opera house, Annie returned to the Giry residence faithfully every evening. It wasn't easy to tear herself away from Erik, but she knew it was necessary. After all, she did have a baby.

Meg always reached for her mother happily when Annie would come home from a day of work and relieve Giselle from child care duties. Annie's evenings were spent holding her daughter, feeding her, and spending precious time playing with her and Alain before the youngest members of the household would drift off to sleep.

But the nights…

Annie could not sleep in the bed she had once shared with Giles. She would start her night in her bedroom, huddled beneath the blankets that had always seemed so cozy and warm when her husband laid beside her. But now the very same sheets nearly suffocated her, and the bed seemed big enough to engulf her whole.

When it was late enough that Annie was certain Giselle was asleep, she would creep downstairs to the parlor, and take her place on the settee. There she would watch the fire pop and dance as she willed her mind, to fall asleep.

It never worked.

Instead, in the golden lick of the flames, curly tendrils stained with red would eventually appear, and Giles would be there before her, once again lying on a hospital bed and pouring forth his heart.

 _I never told you… I was so…afraid…of losing you. I'm sorry. I…I…I'm so sorry_

 _Shh_ … she had told him. _It doesn't matter. None of that matters. Erik doesn't matter…_

But of course, Erik did.

She had run to him almost instantaneously—before her husband had even been a full day in the ground. She had only sought comfort, but through her own actions, their physical relationship had resumed. And though she had once vowed to be faithful to Giles body and soul, forsaking all others, she had taken another—and despite the sickly feeling that now roiled in her belly as she lay here, remembering Giles's smile, his laugh, his touch—she knew she would be with Erik again in the morning. She had no choice. He was the only thing that could take away the void inside her.

"Till death do us part," Annie thought as she looked down at the band of gold that still encircled her finger. There had once been a time when she had questioned that phrase—wondering how death could ever have the power to sever a bond that had been forged in the fires of love. It had seemed impossible to Annie that such a bond could ever break—that had been the excuse she gave herself when she'd cried for Erik on her wedding night, or spent hours and hours regaling her dear husband with stories about her poor lost love. Of course, the day she'd buried Giles, she had run to Erik's arms, and spent the night tightly wrapped within them. Perhaps death had been strong enough to destroy her and Giles's bond. But then of course, could she really blame death, when she'd been ready to betray him the night before Giles had left her? And wasn't it her fault he had died in the first place? If she had not run out of the opera house so angry at Erik… If she had not run in front of that carriage…

 _You have made me so…very happy, Antoinette,_ she could hear her husband whisper, reminding her of his unending devotion to her… _You and Meg…were the best things…to happen…to me._

"I'm not so sure, Giles," Annie whispered to the flames. "Perhaps Meg, but I could never be the best thing. I am hardly even good."

 _You are not worthy of the name Giry!_ her sister-in-law's words resounded once again in her ears, and they seemed to carry so much more weight than her husband's ever did.

And closing her eyes against the bitter ache she felt rising in her chest, she once again heard Giles's tender plea, _Be happy, Annie. You deserve to be happy._

Annie looked toward the hearth once again—the golden hues this time reminding Annie of the fiery glow of passion in Erik's eyes.

"I'm not sure I do, Giles," she whispered to the flames. "I'm not sure I do."

* * *

As Erik steered the boat toward the new chamber the following morning, he could not help but notice that Annie was particularly quiet. As she gazed out at the rippling water, a distant look was lodged in her eyes, and he could tell that her mind was miles and miles away.

"Are you quite alright, Annie?" he asked her as they docked and he held out a steadying hand as she disembarked the boat.

"Just fine, Erik," she said, climbing out of the vessel with a smile that never reached her eyes. "Why do you ask?"

"You just seem…" Erik began, not certain of the words to say. He was not used to feeling this unsure around his Annie. It used to be that they could talk about anything. Of course that was before he left for Monaco. "…very caught up in your thoughts," he finally said to finish his sentence.

"Hardly, Erik," Annie assured him, walking past him and further into the chamber, though once again, her words did not ring true. "I am just tired."

"You know, Annie," Erik said, making certain that the ropes were tight enough to secure the boat, and placing his pole inside the vessel for safekeeping, "if there is anything you ever want to talk about, I am happy to listen. I am, as the saying goes, all ears."

"Oh, Erik," she chuckled to herself, as she watched him walk toward her. "I have become very well re-acquainted with your body in recent days, and I can say with certainty, you are not all ears."

Erik felt a smile spread across his lips at her suggestive words. At least when she was teasing him, she didn't look so sad. "Oh really?" he bantered, wishing to extend the frivolity that had suddenly sparked between them. "If not all ears, what else, then?"

"Oh strong arms come to mind," she told him, as she laid her palms on his upper arms and gave his biceps a good squeeze. Moving one hand to his chest, she added, "And a firm, toned chest. And," she purred, allowing her fingers to trail lower toward the waist band of his trousers, which despite his concern for her were growing rather uncomfortably tight, "a big…hard…thick" Erik pressed against her as he waited for the steamy, risque' word that would surely be his undoing to fall from her lips. "Head," Annie said, humor quickly filling her voice, as she lifted her hand to tap him lightly on the temple, "that refuses to believe that I am just fine!"

"You are a wicked, wicked woman, Annie!" Erik told her with a breathy chuckle. "But believe me, I know that you are very, very fine!"

"Am I?" Annie giggled, leaning in for a quick kiss.

"Yes," Erik promised, kissing her back.

"Then take me to bed, Erik," Annie demanded, eager to feel his entire body covering over hers, "and show me just how fine I really am!"

"Mmmmm," Erik groaned huskily, "Gladly!" Still kissing her, Erik took both her hands in his, and led her slowly toward the inner recess they thought of as the bedroom. Erik was fumbling with the buttons on her long black dress when suddenly, Annie asked, "Erik, what is that?"

"Oh, come now, Annie," Erik teased, his mind quite focused on the task of removing her clothes, "you're the expert on my body! You know it's my big, hard, thick…"

"Erik, no," Annie said, pushing lightly on his chest to get his attention. Breathless, Erik watched as Annie pointed to something on the far side of the room. "What is that?" she repeated her question.

Turning his head as her fingers directed, Erik saw what she was looking at. "Oh," he said, remembering the project he had completed the previous night, when he had not been able to sleep for missing her. He had forgotten all about it, in their playful flirtation.

In the corner of the bedroom he had only slept in when it had been shared with Annie, there stood a small crib painted a bright white and filled with soft pink fabric he had found in the opera's costume department. The side panels were high enough to ensure that a curious toddler would not be able to easily climb out, and on the headboard, was a picture of a little crown.

"That," Erik answered, clearing his throat, "is for your little princess."

Annie's mouth opened wide in shock. Was she truly hearing this? Erik had built a crib? For Meg?

"Erik, I…" Annie stammered, "I don't know what to say…"

"Well," Erik responded, "You've been spending a great deal of time here, but you must always go home to see your daughter. I had thought…perhaps…" Erik looked down at the ground, feeling dreadfully awkward. Why was this so difficult? This was Annie, for heaven's sake. Simply telling her what he was thinking should not be this hard. "…you might wish to bring her with you some time."

"You wish for me to bring Meg?" Annie asked, incredulously. "Here?"

"Well, not if the thought offends you," Erik said, turning away from her, irritation creeping into his voice. He should have known she would never want him anywhere near her child. "I know this place is not grand enough for Giry's daughter."

"Erik, no!" Annie said, horrified that he would think her capable of those thoughts. Taking his hand, she tried to pull him back toward her. "Erik, please look at me," she begged, and slowly, he turned around—though his eyes were still trained on the ground. Gesturing toward the bed, they sat down side by side.

"Erik," Annie began, looking down as she traced the spidery lines on the inside of his palm. "There is nothing wrong with this place. It is my sanctuary—my hideaway from the rest of the world. But Meg. She is Giles's daughter."

"And therefore I can have no part in her life," Erik quickly interjected, feeling the old resentment he'd had for the Parisian gentleman coming back full force. Even now that he was dead, Erik could never live up to him.

"No," Annie said quietly, unable to look at him. "I never thought you would want to have a part in her life. I did not want to push her on you—I thought…" she paused, taking a deep breath, her voice becoming even smaller than before, "that you would never be able to see her as the beautiful, happy child that she is, because in your eyes she would always be a sign of my ultimate betrayal."

Erik watched as Annie buried her head in her hands, hiding from him and what she imagined he must think of her. "Did you truly think," he asked, reaching out and tipping her head up so that she had to look at him, "that I would refuse her? I cannot help but want to know her, Annie. She is Giles Giry's daughter, there is no denying that. But she is also a part of you." Erik cupped her face in his hands tenderly, before adding, "And I will always want you with me, Annie—in whatever way I can. Annie I…"

Annie felt her heart squeeze and her eyes getting misty. Before Erik could say any more, she leaned forward and kissed him, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck, as they fell backward on the bed. _Forgive me, Giles,_ she thought, as they slowly and gently began to make love, _for I will always want him with me as well._

 **AN: Oh, these two! Even though they're so troubled they are so cute together! But Annie, you should have let him finish his sentence!**


	90. Chapter 90

CH 90

That night, as Annie lay in her bed, thoughts of Erik swirled in her head. He had made Meg a crib—and such a beautiful one at that. It was not as opulent as the one she and Giles had picked out when they discovered she was pregnant, but it was crafted from his own hands—which made it a far rarer treasure, in Annie's mind. And the crown! Erik had referred to her as Annie's little princess—and he had made the crib as a safe place for Meg to be if Annie ever wanted to bring her beneath the opera house.

Erik said he wanted to know Meg, Annie thought as she rolled over again in an attempt to get comfortable. Though she knew that Erik could never take his anger out on any child, she truly never believed he would want anything to do with the living proof of her intimacies with another man. Her daughter was a part of the life she had lead as Madame Giry and Erik…

Erik was…

Heaving a deep sigh and flipping over on the bed yet again, she asked herself the question. What was Erik to her? He had been her dearest friend and her first love, no doubt. There had been a time when all she dreamed about was giving her life to him and becoming his bride. But those dreams had been stolen from her by the shah's cruel lie. A piece of her had died that day. But somehow, she had managed to go on with her life.

A life with a husband—and then a child.

A life with laughter—and even joy.

And then Erik came back.

And now she spent her afternoons delighting in his touch and giving her body over to his pleasure while Giselle thought she was at work, and her managers thought she was at home grieving. The only sleep she got these days came after those breathless moments of abandon, when her body was spent and her mind would mercifully allow her to drift off into a peaceful slumber as Erik held her in his arms…

Annie stared up at the ceiling thinking how easy it would be to rest right now if Erik's arms were wrapped around her. She would not have to think—she wouldn't have to try to make sense of it all. Everything would just be right. The heat radiating from the roaring fire in the hearth could not compare to the warmth she would know in Erik's embrace, and though she was lying on a feathery soft bed, it could never bring her the comfort that would come from Erik's body pressing tightly against hers, his breath delicately tickling her neck. No, the luxury and safety of the Giry home was no match for the security she knew when Erik was lying beside her. The monsters that preyed upon her at night were frightened away when Erik was there—and she did not have to worry about matters like defining this… _thing_ …that was between them—or deciding whether or not she should bring her daughter with her down below. Nothing could harm her when she was with Erik. Not even the memory that her husband was…

Annie shot up and out of bed—knowing that that particular thought would have the power to destroy her anywhere, if she allowed it to take root. It would be a night on the settee again—there would be no avoiding it. For Erik was not here—and the bedroom was too full of ghosts for Annie to be able to stay.

Annie pulled on her dressing gown and scurried out of her room and down the staircase that led into the parlor. But creeping quietly into the room, in an effort not to disturb the others who slumbered in the house, Annie discovered that she was not alone. On the leather chair, staring into the fire, sat Giselle. She clutched a wadded up handkerchief tightly in her hand, and her eyes were red as if she had been crying.

"Giselle?" Annie called softly, as she rounded in front of the chair. "What is the matter?"

"Antoinette," Giselle responded, startling and looking toward her friend sheepishly as she was drawn out of her silent meditations. "Nothing's wrong—I just…," she looked down shyly. "I couldn't sleep."

"But you've been crying," Annie pressed in concern, kneeling down in front of her and taking her hands. "Please tell me what's wrong."

Giselle took a moment to close her eyes, and fight back the tears that were obviously threatening to fall again. "Forgive me, Antoinette" she began shakily, after taking in a deep breath, "but thoughts of Monsieur Giry were plaguing my mind."

"Oh?" Annie asked, remaining supportive, but feeling her back begin to stiffen.

"Yes," Giselle nodded, bringing her handkerchief to her face to wipe some stray moisture from her eyes. "He _saved_ us, Antoinette. Alain and me. If it were not for his kindness…" she added, shaking her head, "we might not have survived. I would have had to turn to a life of prostitution to make it on the streets—and Alain…" she had to pause again to swallow at the lump that had formed in her throat, "might not have even been born." Giselle declared, meeting Annie's gaze. "We owe him such gratitude. We owe him our lives." Her eyes closed again tightly, but a few tears streamed down her face anyway. "But now he's gone, and I shall never get to repay him for the goodness and the kindness that he did for me and my child."

Annie was taken aback by Giselle's words. Obviously, she knew the history between Giles and Giselle. She had been the one to inspire him to take in the young, pregnant ballerina—and discovering he had done so had been the final sign of his goodness that allowed Annie to begin to love him. But to hear Giselle's fervent words—she was reminded very starkly, that she was not the only one who had suffered a loss.

"You…" Annie began, her voice hoarse, "…obviously admired Giles a great deal."

Nodding as she blew her nose quietly into the handkerchief, Giselle said, "Monsieur Giry provided everything I needed when I was alone and pregnant—turned out by my family and by my child's father. He gave me a place to stay and food to eat. And once Alain was born, he often brought by 'gifts' that were actually much needed supplies that I could not have afforded to purchase on my own. He gave us a chance, Antoinette. He was the best thing that ever happened to us."

 _The best thing to ever happen…_

Annie reeled to hear the words that were so much like Giles spill out of Giselle's mouth. Truly, Giles had been a blessing to them. Seeking no gain for himself, and having had no ulterior motives, he had singlehandedly given a young girl back her life. It was clear Giselle would not be living as comfortably as she was living now, without Giles having shown her his kindness. He truly was the best thing that could have happened to Giselle. There was no arguing with that.

But Giles had spoken those words to Annie as well—right before he died—and hearing them repeated now made Annie's stomach clench in shame. He could not have been more incorrect. From the first moment she had met him, Giles had spent his life _giving_ to Annie. And what had Annie ever done for him?

He had given her a home, a job, and friendship when Erik had gone. She'd known of his feelings for her, and yet, she'd still spent time with him, allowing his fondness to grow while she kept her heart set on another man. And then, when she believed Erik was dead, she allowed him to carry her and comfort her—while still her heart yearned for her lost beloved. She _had_ eventually married Giles, accepting a share in his home and his wealth—and yet on their wedding night, he watched as she sobbed for another. She carried his name and gave birth to his child, but when Erik returned, she begged her ex-lover to stay—insisting she could not live without him. And finally she lured her husband into the street—where he lost his life saving hers—and she grieved him by immediately falling back into Erik's arms. She was not the best thing that happened to Giles. In fact, by her estimation, she might have been the worst. Had he not met her, he easily could have married a woman born to high society who, no doubt, would have spent a long happy life loving him the way he deserved and giving him a house full of children. But instead, Annie had betrayed him in her heart, and only led him to his untimely death.

 _You made me so very happy, Antoinette…_ Giles reminded her in an echoed whisper.

"Forgive me, Giles," she returned in her mind, "for I cannot see how."

"I envy you, Antoinette," Giselle said softly, when Annie made no reply.

"What?" Annie said in surprise, turning in confusion to face her friend. "Why?"

"Because you are so strong," Giselle answered, admiration clear in her eyes. "Any other woman would have been devastated at such a horrible loss. Considering the way he talked about you, and how much you both loved each other, I would have expected you to fall apart. And yet…you haven't—not at all. You go to work, you care for your child, and here you are now—Monsieur Giry's widow comforting _me_. How can you be so strong?"

 _It's easy to be strong when you're already sleeping with someone else!_ She heard the answer in her mind.

"My husband wanted," Annie answered a bit breathlessly, her eyes not quite focusing on the woman in front of her, "me to go on—to be happy."

 _And you are so very happy! Day after day, you cry out in carnal pleasures as you allow Erik to use your body, taking you, over and over…pounding into you again and again…not sparing a single thought for the man to whom you promised your love…your loyalty…your life._

"No, _stop it_!" Annie snarled, closing her eyes tightly and pressing her hands against her ears to drown out the cruel voice inside her head. But it was no use, because now the voice was laughing at her—reveling in her discomfort. _Your type is not known for its virtue._

"Antoinette?" Giselle asked, alarmed.

"Yes," Annie responded, breathing heavily and not looking at her friend. "Forgive me. I…find that I am a bit overwrought. I…have not been sleeping well either."

"Of course," Giselle said, her expression rife with pity. "He was your husband."

"Yes," Annie nodded, trying to pull herself together, but unable to keep from shaking. "He was. And I am finding that the last promise I made to him is proving to be the hardest one to keep."

"Here," Giselle said, standing and helping Annie to her feet. "Let me make you some tea," she added, guiding her over to the settee. "It appears neither one of us will be sleeping much tonight."

Annie forced a smile and watched as Giselle made her way to the kitchen. Once she had disappeared behind the door, Annie wrapped her arms around herself to stave off a chill as she turned back to gaze into the flames. About one thing, Giselle was absolutely right. There would be no rest for Annie in this house tonight—or ever again. There were far too many ghosts.

* * *

Erik raked his hand through his hair in frustration as he paced back and forth in front of the lake. He must have been between the two underground chambers at least a dozen times, and nothing had changed. Annie had not come.

She had not said anything to him the previous afternoon which would have led him to believe she would not be here today. They had parted with a tender kiss, following an afternoon of sweet and gentle lovemaking. She had given herself to him eagerly and together they had soared to passion's heights again and again. He did not understand her sudden absence.

He had thought, perhaps, that she had resumed her work with the ballerinas. He knew it was her plan to eventually return to her job, and when she did, they would have less time to spend together. It was quite possible that she could have forgotten to mention it in the midst of their amorous activities. Erik had even ventured up into the tunnels behind the opera house to check for himself. But there, in the rehearsal room, was Madame Delacroix—and she was guiding the girls as if she had never vacated her role as ballet mistress. No, Annie had not resumed work.

Erik had then rushed back to the chamber, certain that she had arrived during his brief absence and would be standing in the chamber, just waiting to scold him for worrying so much. But, much to his dismay, she was not there—and there was no trace that she had been either.

He checked the new chamber—the one he was slowly furnishing as a home—to see if perhaps she had used the outside entrance today. But she had not been there, either. And so he had begun frantically sailing back and forth between the chambers, hoping that she might yet still arrive, and not having any idea why she would suddenly shy away from him.

Unless his fool-hearty attempt to make her feel comfortable had backfired.

Annie had told him she'd felt touched by his efforts at making a crib for her daughter—that the only reason she had not yet brought the babe to meet him was because she thought he would not want to be reminded of the intimacies she had shared with her husband. Of course, it did kill Erik to think of Annie lying in Giry's arms, but had that been her real reason? Had she been lying when she said she had not wanted Erik to be reminded of her betrayal? Had it really been that she did not wish to share such a precious gift with him—that she did not wish to taint the child's purity and innocence with the stain of his imperfect presence? Had she finally realized that he was not good enough for her daughter? Not good enough for her? Had he now lost her by his very efforts to pull her close?

"Why?" he groaned loudly, staring into the waters of the lake that churned and twisted like the inner workings of his tumultuous soul. 'Why did it matter so much to me to know the child?" But of course Erik knew the reason. The child mattered because Annie mattered—so much. He loved her—and though he had not thought it possible, he loved her even more now than he had before he left for Monaco. And he wanted her with him—all of her. And that meant he at least had to make an effort to know…and love…her child.

"I am a fool!" he sneered at his masked reflection in the lake. "Why would she ever want me to have anything to do with her child."

"Erik," Annie's voice responded in the darkness. "I would love nothing better than for you to meet my child. Right now."

Erik whirled around at his beloved's declaration and was brought up short when he saw her standing at the entrance to the chamber, holding her daughter in her arms. The little girl's head was tucked into her mother's neck, so at first all Erik could see was an unruly mess of golden curls. But at Annie's gentle prodding, her little head turned to look at him, and Erik could see a shy smile spread across the child's face before she once again buried her face in Annie's shoulder.

"Oh, silly girl," Annie said, giving her daughter a reassuring squeeze. "There's no need to be shy!" And looking up at Erik, she said, "I could say the same thing to you. You wanted to meet her. Come closer."

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Erik crossed the chamber with two or three of his long strides, realizing, as he did, that he was suddenly dreadfully nervous of meeting an infant! What on earth had ever made him think he could manage this? His palms were sweaty and his knees were weak. This had been one of his most terrible ideas.

When the babe once again looked up at him, their eyes met, and it seemed she could not suppress a giggle. "That's it, Meg," Annie said, her eyes sparkling. "Smile for Erik."

When the infant did just that, Erik could not help but gasp. The child was perfect, beautiful, and here she was smiling for him! But suddenly Meg emitted a little squeal, trying to squirm out of her mother's hold, her pudgy little arms reaching out, her fingers opening and closing. The child had obviously seen something she wanted, and Erik glanced over his shoulder, trying to find the source of her fascination.

"Erik," Annie giggled, "it's you! She wants you to hold her."

"What?" Erik turned back at her, wondering if his complexion had just gone as ashen as he thought it had. Based on Annie's increased laughter, he was sure that answer was a yes. "I don't know how to hold her."

"Well, it's not hard." Annie said, in encouragement, as she struggled to hold on to her determined daughter. "Come on! Give it a try."

Still entirely uncertain, Erik nodded tentatively as he stretched out his arms to receive the child. When Annie handed her over to him, he closed both hands around the child's middle and held her an arm's length away, bending his head backwards a bit to look at her.

"Not like that, Erik!" Annie chided in amusement. "Hold her close."

Erik glanced over to meet Annie's eyes and, nodding, slowly pulled the little girl in to his chest. He could immediately feel her settle down and snuggle her little body more tightly into him as her clear blue eyes gazed deeply into his. Shifting her weight onto his left arm, he lifted his right one to touch her golden curls, gently pulling one straight just to watch it spring back into place. She giggled when he did this and he could not stop a smirk from washing over his face as he went to do it again.

"Do you like that?" he asked, as Meg shrieked in delight. As if in answer, she lifted her own arms, and brought her hands to his face—laying one on his smooth, exposed cheek and the other on his mask. Erik tensed for a second, worried about what the child might do—but as he continued to stare into her blue eyes, which looked so much like a pair he had previously grown to abhor, he began to calm. In her eyes he saw trust. In her eyes he saw acceptance. And he realized, as he continued to meet her joyful gaze, that for the second time in his life, he was falling in love.

Without a warning, Meg emitted a gleeful shriek as she pulled her hands away and sharply slapped Erik's face, following up with a loud raspberry that got spittle all over his chin.

Erik's resulting scrunched up expression earned him renewed giggles from both Meg and her mother, who could not resist joining in her laughter.

"Well, you seemed to have liked _that_!" he said ruefully, rolling his eyes as Annie took the baby from his arms.

"She likes _you_ , Erik!" Annie said, as he retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his chin.

Watching both Annie and Meg laughing before him, Erik's heart was suddenly filled with joy, and he could not help but laugh along with them as he said, "I like you too, Little Giry!"

"Awww," Annie exclaimed, looking rather touched at Erik's words, "You have a nickname for her already?

"Well," Erik answered, a twinkle in his eye. "It's quite nice to have a lady who doesn't yell at me for calling her little."

And shifting Meg over to her hip, Annie beamed as she reached an arm around Erik's neck and brought his head down to hers for a kiss.

* * *

By the time Erik and Annie had reached the new chamber on the other side of the lake, Meg was asleep in her mother's arms, having been lulled into slumber by the motion of the waves. Silently, Erik exited the boat, reaching over to help Annie out. And then, careful not to make a sound, they crept together to the little bedroom and gently placed Meg into her new crib. Placing a finger to her lips, Annie turned to leave the room, wishing to give Meg the quiet she needed to continue to rest. Erik gazed once more at Annie's daughter—looking so much like an angel in her sleep—before whispering, "Good night, Little Giry," and following Annie out into the next room.

"Thank you, Erik!" Annie said, throwing her arms around his back and hugging him tightly when he joined her. "Thank you for the crib. She looks so comfortable in it."

"Of course," Erik said, happy that Meg was getting use out of his creation after all. "But Annie, where were you today? It was so late before you arrived, I thought perhaps you were not coming."

"Erik," Annie giggled, slapping his arm playfully. "You shouldn't worry about me not coming to see you. You should worry about me not leaving!"

Erik's heart clenched at her words, unable to think of anything he would like more than if Annie never left him again. But before he could respond, she continued, "But as for today, I was busy moving."

"What?" Erik asked so loudly, that Annie was afraid he would wake Meg.

"Shhh, Erik," Annie told him, her finger once again to her lips. "There is a baby in the next room!"

"I am aware of that," he whispered in response, though in truth, he had not been thinking of the child at the moment. "But what do you mean, you were moving?"

"I have decided," Annie told him simply, "to make my residence at the opera house. There is an apartment that was built with the ballet mistress in mind. Madame Delacroix never had need of it, and up until now, neither have I. But now I think I would like to give it a try."

"But why," Erik asked, confused, "when you have a house of your own?"

Annie remembered the conversation she had had just this morning when a teary eyed Giselle had asked her the same thing.

"There is nothing for me here, Giselle," Annie had told her. "Nothing but memories that keep me up at night in a bed that is far too large." And ghosts that shriek far too loudly, she thought but did not say.

"But what about us?" Giselle had asked, knowing that she would not be able to live with Annie at the opera house.

"Stay here," Annie insisted, "Or the cottage, if you prefer. I am not selling the house, it's just that I cannot be here."

"I understand," Giselle had assured her, perhaps remembering their conversation from the night before.

"But I was hoping you would still watch Meg while I was working?" Annie had added.

"Of course!" Giselle had agreed, with a smile.

Annie knew that if she gave Erik the same explanation she had given Giselle, he would want her to talk, insisting that if memories could drive her out of her home, than she was not alright. But it wasn't her home—it was Giles's home—and she felt as if she no longer had any right to be there. Since that was the last thing Annie wanted to discuss with Erik, she told him, "I will be resuming my work as ballet mistress tomorrow, and there is much to catch up on. I wanted to be close to my job, and I see no need to travel back and forth to the house, when there is an apartment perfectly capable of housing my daughter and myself just upstairs. I contacted the managers this morning, and have spent the entire day moving my things from the house to the apartment."

Erik looked at her, still somewhat unconvinced of her reasoning. "Are you sure this is the right thing for you, Annie?"

"Of course I am sure, Erik," Annie smiled. "I wouldn't have made the decision if I didn't believe it was right. Besides," Annie added, a sly grin coming over her face, as she playfully took his hands in hers. "There is an extra added bonus to me having an apartment in the building."

"Oh yes?" Erik asked, already feeling himself become affected by her flirtatious tone. "And what is that?"

"Well," she said, running a finger down his arm, and causing him to suck in his breath, "with my apartment just upstairs, and such a beautiful crib down here for Meg, it will be much easier for me to spend the night."

Erik's eyes opened wide, and he felt his heart skip a beat. "You plan on spending the night, Annie?" He asked her breathlessly. "With Meg?"

Moving closer to him and pulling his arms so that they circled around her waist, she nodded. "Unless you object, Erik," she added, coyly.

"Object?" He asked her incredulously, tightening his arms around her. "Hardly!" And then, echoing back her own words from earlier, he added huskily, "You should worry less about my objections to your being here, and wonder instead if I ever plan on letting you go."

"Don't, Erik," Annie whispered, as she tilted her head up for a kiss. "Please don't let me go."

Later, as they clung to each other on the shores of the lake, clothing strewn haphazardly about, satisfied smiles gracing both of their faces, Annie purred, "Erik, I can see only one problem with me spending the night."

"And what would that be, Annie?" Erik asked, placing a lazy kiss on the tip of her nose.

"You are going to have to move the crib," she informed him, a seductive smile plastered on her lips as she ran her fingers across his chest. "For Meg would never be able to sleep through that!"

With a chuckle, Erik kissed her, promising to do just that, as they pulled away. "I will do whatever it takes for you and Little Giry to be comfortable here. For Annie," he told her, suddenly serious as he looked into her eyes, "I want you to stay."

Feeling her heart clench a little, Annie made no reply, but only pulled him back into another delicious embrace.

 **AN: Awww, Annie made Erik so happy this chapter. But you know there's still trouble brewing...**


	91. Chapter 91

CH 91

Erik and Annie spent that night wrapped in each other's embrace. Though they lay on the shores of the lake, it was the most restful night either had known in a very long time, their arms providing a comfort that could never be found on the most luxurious of beds or the softest of pillows. In the morning, when Erik had rowed Annie and Meg across the lake, so they could meet Giselle, Annie smiled before kissing his lips and departed the boat with the promise, "We'll see you tonight."

Feeling his heart leap at her parting words, Erik smiled as Annie and Meg departed for the small apartment. A frigid chill suddenly descended upon him without their warming presence, but Erik was confident in the knowledge that they would return—and there was much to do before they did. Quickly steering his boat back across the lake, he tied it down securely and set about making his preparations.

The first thing he did was follow Annie's advice and move Meg's crib into a deeper recess in the underground chamber. She had slept in it quite comfortably the night before, but Erik knew that if he and Annie were to be sharing a bed, they would need their privacy. Surely, laying intimately entwined through the night would lead to certain activities—ones that were definitely not meant for innocent eyes. Or ears. Even though Little Giry's crib would be a distance away, they would still have to take care not to disturb her.

Erik stopped for a moment as the significance of his thoughts sank in. _They would be back._ For the first time in so long, Erik was secure in the knowledge that his Annie would be returning to him—that she would be bringing her child and that they would stay. _They would stay!_ And he would not have to spend the night alone.

Joy filled his heart, compelling him to leave the recess that would become Little Giry's new room, and return to the bedroom, where he kept the pouch that held the remains of his Persian treasure. Loosening the drawstrings, deft fingers reached inside and found the beautiful ring Yasmin had given him before he made his departure. As he gazed upon the circle of black diamonds that surrounded the fiery center topaz, old dreams of spending his future with Annie reignited in his soul. So many times, on his passage back from Persia, he had envisioned placing this very ring on her left hand, vowing before a minister of God and of the state that he would have and hold her forevermore—then sealing his promise with a kiss.

Of course, upon his return, he had found that everything had changed. _But now_ …, Erik thought, a spark of excitement making the blood thrum more quickly in his veins. Now the dream seemed in reach once again. Annie had turned to him in her time of trouble, and she had even introduced her child to him. He had held the babe in his arms, and he had to admit, it had not been _bad_. Even though there was no denying that the girl was a Giry through and through, she somehow fit snugly in his embrace—as if she belonged there—and after she'd stayed awhile, he had not wanted to ever let her go. Just like her mother.

Had Annie not begged him for just that only last night? _Please don't let me go_ she implored, as they once again succumbed to passion's whim. _Never, Annie_ , he'd moaned his solemn vow as he eagerly slid inside her, joining their bodies as their hearts and souls had always been. _I will never let you go._ He'd meant those words then, as he meant them now. If it were up to him, he would take her tonight as his wife, and he would happily spend his days loving her and helping her raise her child.

But he knew it was too soon. Society demanded that widows go through a period of public mourning—during which Annie was forced to dress in black and shun any and all gentlemanly attentions. He would not do anything to damage her reputation, and threaten her position as the Palais Garnier's ballet mistress—especially since her late husband had been the head manager of the establishment. But he knew in his heart they would be together. The day would come when she would finally be able to cleave to Erik publicly, and they would finish the business they'd started when she'd agreed to be his wife all those years ago. She would remove her simple band of gold, and replace it with Erik's fiery ring instead. And on that day he would finally be made whole.

* * *

Annie spent the morning at the opera house, rehearsing with the dancers and keeping them in top performance condition. It felt good to be back at work. Madame Delacroix had done an admirable job filling her position while she had been on leave, but there were still things that Annie found she needed to address. The job of ballet mistress was one she took very seriously, and she had become a bit of a perfectionist.

When the dancers broke for lunch, Annie decided to grab a quick sandwich to share with Erik. After all, a bite to eat would do them both good—and if they finished eating quickly enough, she thought as a naughty smile spread over her face, perhaps they would have time for dessert. Scurrying out of the rehearsal room, she made her way to the kitchens to appropriate a crusty baguette filled with fresh ham and cheese.

As she hurried on to Box 5, she contemplated having dessert first, realizing that her hunger for Erik far outweighed her interest in the sandwich. Her feet had almost carried her to her destination, delicious thoughts of her impending encounter filling her mind, when she stumbled a bit in her haste. Her stride broken, she looked up to find that she was passing through the managerial wing—and right before her was Giles's office.

Annie felt frozen to her spot, her throat going dry as she stared at the solid mahogany door before her. Less than 2 weeks ago, Giles had been behind this door, seated at his desk, trying to solve the mystery of the opera ghost. "I could have told you," Annie murmured quietly, as she felt herself move forward and put her hand on the wood. "I should have told you," she whispered again, and she knew it was true, but she had been too caught up in emotions to consider the right thing to do—or where her loyalties should have been. "Would it have saved you?" she wondered, as she applied gentle pressure to the door and pushed. The hinges made a quiet groan, as if to tell her she'd never know, and the door swung forward before her.

The room was dark and deathly still, and something inside her told Annie she should go. But never one to listen to such sensible admonitions, her feet moved a few steps forward. Directing her attention to the gas powered sconces that hung on the wall, Annie found the switch and turned it, casting a soft yellow glow on the inside of the room.

Since Giles had been away on business until the afternoon before his death, the heavy wooden desk was clear of the customary papers that were usually strewn about the surface-it's only ornament being the silver frame that held their wedding picture. Annie walked forward a few more steps, sniffing away tears as she placed her hands on the smooth dark wood. It was startling how hard and cold it was beneath her fingertips. "Not like you, Giles," she murmured, wiping away a thin layer of dust that had accumulated on the surface. "Your heart was so soft—and warm."

Crossing over behind the desk, Annie slowly lowered herself into the leather chair. Leaning back as the worn material creaked and sighed beneath her, Annie imagined Giles's warm arms coming around her waist from behind, pulling her close as he whispered some silly bit of nonsense in her ear. "Giles," Annie whispered, "you always knew how to make me smile."

Reaching forward to take the framed picture into her hands, she gazed upon the image of them standing together on their wedding day. "That was a happy day, Giles," she whispered, running her fingertips across the image. "Such a happy day," she recalled—until they got to the wedding night.

Not wishing to remember how she had sobbed into the fireplace, while her husband looked on behind her, Annie placed the photograph down, opening several of the drawers on the desk, hoping that rifling through his business papers would help her stem the rising tide of sorrow that threatened to break forth. She found receipts for bills that Giles had paid and invitations to events that he would never attend. She could not stop herself from snickering when she found the business card for the tutu company Madame Delacroix had used to outfit the dancers. "Oh Giles," Annie snickered with fondness, "she certainly knew how to get what she wanted from you." And of course, Giles had given the formidable old woman anything she wanted if she would grant him extended access to Annie. It had always been about spending time with her—taking care of her—loving her. There had never been any question in Annie's mind about the depths of Giles's affection.

Taking another deep breath, Annie continued to sort through her husband's papers, until she came to a pair of envelopes clipped together that had been stashed at the bottom of the pile. "Antoinette Laramie…"  
 _L…l…last year_ , _a letter came in the mail,_ she remembered her husband's labored words. _It…it was addressed to you—using your maiden name—but it was from Persia, and I remembered what the last letter from Persia did to you, so I…I opened it. I'm sorry, Antoinette. I'm so sorry. It was from Erik…_

Annie paused as she stared at the letter she held in her hand. This was it—the letter Giles had received from Persia—the one he had chosen not to tell her about, because of his own insecurities. _I was so…afraid of losing you. We had come so far, Antoinette.…I didn't want you to leave me… I'm sorry…_

"No, I'm sorry, my husband," Annie responded, as she recalled his remorseful, heart wrenching words, "that I ever led you to have such fears." He had been such a good husband to her. How could she have made him feel so insecure?

She had told Giles, on his deathbed, that the letter did not matter. And it hadn't at the time. After all, she'd already known that Erik's death was a lie—a lie she had chosen to perpetuate by not telling Giles that he'd returned. But now that she held the letter in her own hand, she could not suppress the urge to read it.

Lifting the flap of the envelope, that had been addressed in a handwriting she didn't recognize, Annie lifted out the piece of folded paper, and smoothed it out so she could read.

 _My Dearest Annie…_

 _…_ _I long to see you dance…I yearn to see your beautiful eyes instead of just remembering them—to hear the melody of your voice—to feel your miraculous touch that both burns my body with the fever of desire, and cools it with blessed, gentle comfort. I crave the softness of your lips—your kiss breathing life into my broken, weakened body and making me whole again. I hunger for this, Annie. I thirst for it.…know this, Annie. You are never alone. Wherever you go, you carry my heart—my love surrounds you always. You are endlessly in my mind—in my heart. You, Antoinette Laramie, will forever own my soul._

 _I love you, Annie. Now, and always._

 _E_

Heavy tears fell from Annie's eyes as she read Erik's impassioned words—written to her at a time when he was so far away. Her heart ached to know of how Erik suffered but it shattered when she thought about the fact that her husband had read these words.

 _I'm sorry, Antoinette. I'm so sorry._ Giles had begged for her forgiveness as he lay there dying.

"No, Giles," Annie now sobbed. "I am the one who should be sorry. You deserved to be loved far better than I loved you. Can you ever, _ever_ forgive me?"

Annie fought to regain control of herself…for she could not afford to fall apart. Breathing in deeply through her nose, her eyes fell on the second letter—the one that had been clipped to the missive Erik had sent her from Persia. This one had originated from the same Eastern land, only it had been sent on palace letterhead. Annie pulled the heavy parchment out of the envelope, to read the chilling words written by Giles's Persian contact Kevah.

 _Greetings, Monsieur Giry,_

 _I received your recent inquiry into the fate of your wife's acquaintance, Erik, and please allow me to assure you that he is, indeed, dead. While he yet lived, I was acquainted with the man, and though he may have come to Mazanderan to build a new palace for the shah, I must tell you, sir, that is not how he ultimately employed himself…_

 _Soon after his arrival, Erik fell under the shah's influence. He constructed a heinous torture chamber, which our depraved ruler uses even now to silence his opposition. For many months, Erik operated the chamber, delivering torment and death to its wretched occupants. He became known as the Angel of Death—and the sight of his imposing, black draped figure inspired fear throughout Persia. Eventually, however, Erik fell out of favor with the shah—I know not why—and he was, himself, executed—a victim of his own cruel torture chamber. I saw them lead him in, and I witnessed them removing his body afterward. I do not know who sent your wife the mysterious communication, but I can promise you that Erik, The Angel of Death, lives no more._

Annie felt nausea rising in her belly. Erik had been the executioner for the shah? That didn't make sense. It couldn't be true. He would never agree to do that—he would never agree to have any part in killing. Unless…unless…for some reason, he couldn't refuse.

Erik's letters to her had stopped the minute he entered Persia. Had he somehow been the shah's prisoner right from the start? Had the wicked man prevented him from writing to her—had he forced Erik into becoming a killer?

This was why Giles tried to warn her that Erik was dangerous. He had read this letter, and he believed what had been written. But surely, there had been some mistake. For Erik was not capable of being this cruel hearted _Angel of Death._

Annie refolded both letters and slid them back in their envelopes, but instead of placing them back in the drawer, she tucked them into her skirt pocket. Sometime soon she was going to have to have a talk with Erik about Persia.

Glancing at the clock on the wall, Annie realized that the dancers were just about due to come back from their break. Taking one last look at her husband's beautiful face gazing out at her from the framed picture on the desk, she swallowed hard before saying, "You deserved so much better in life, my dear sweet husband." And then, rising to her feet, she slowly made her way out the door.

 **AN: Hmmmm...the letters have surfaced...**


	92. Chapter 92

CH 92

Annie had every intention of asking Erik about the letters when she and Meg returned that

evening to his underground dwelling, but seeing the way his eyes sparkled and how the exposed side of his mouth curled up when he saw them, Persia suddenly became the last thing on her mind. She focused instead on how Erik was smiling at her as he eagerly leaned down to kiss her and take Meg from her arms.

"It is good to see you, Annie," he told her softly, stroking her cheek with the knuckles of one hand, while securing Meg against his chest with the other.

"It is good to be back!" she answered, and it was, because she could feel the emptiness inside her filling with warmth, and she knew it was entirely due to Erik's presence.

As they boarded the boat to sail back to the hideaway across the lake, Erik told Annie, "I have a surprise for you!"

"Oh!" she responded in delight, as Erik carefully placed Meg back in her arms, "Tell me."

"If I told you," he smiled, "it wouldn't be a surprise!" And giving her a final peck on the lips, he took his place behind her and began to push them off shore.

As they drew nearer to their destination, the savory aroma of meat and herbs teased Annie's nostrils. "My goodness, Erik," Annie asked, "what smells so delicious?"

"That is the surprise!" he responded, as he brought the boat into dock. "I hope you haven't eaten," he added, suddenly concerned that his efforts would go for naught if Annie had taken her dinner before she came to meet him.

"No," she assured him, "I didn't want to waste the time. As soon as Meg was back in my arms, I hurried down to see you."

Erik's heart swelled when he heard her words, but tamping down his own excitement, he reached out his hand to help her from the boat, saying, "Well, then, you should greatly enjoy our feast!"

Exiting the boat, her daughter firmly in her arms, Annie saw that the small table was set for dinner. With a little dramatic flourish, Erik removed the silver domes which had been placed over the dishes to keep them hot, revealing, as he did so, a wonderful banquet for two. Succulent meat and roasted vegetables adorned two plates made of delicate china, flanked by a pair of glasses poured with red wine—a crusty baguette sitting in the center of the table in a basket.

"Erik!" Annie exclaimed with wonder, "how did you do this?"

"Well," Erik said, stepping before her and pulling out her chair, "I had a little time today, while you were at work—and after I moved Little Giry's crib—," he added, pointedly, reaching out his arms to once again take the baby from her mother, "I ventured out to the market. There I found a bistro owner who was more than happy to prepare this delectable feast for us, in return for a generous sum. Judging by the mouthwatering aromas, I think he did a fine job."

"I'll say!" Annie said, as she daintily took her seat and let Erik push her in. "It all looks so scrumptious. I can't wait to try it."

"Neither can I!" Erik admitted, his stomach grumbling as he took his seat across from her, positioning Meg carefully on his knee. "However," he added, lifting his glass, "before we eat, we must toast!"

"Toast?" Annie asked, reaching out to lift her glass in the air with him. "To what, Erik?"

"To the first dinner we are sharing since my return," he responded.

Annie paused for a moment, realizing that this truly was the first meal they had shared since he had come back to Paris. Up to this point, she had always returned home for supper, or grabbed something quick from the kitchens. Even during their afternoons together, she and Erik had rarely eaten, as they were usually engaged in far more pleasurable activities. But gazing across the table into Erik's eyes crinkled with joy as he balanced her daughter on his lap so she could have a leisurely dinner, she knew that this would most certainly not be the last meal they would share. Having supper together at the end of a long day was something to which she could grow accustomed, so with a smile, she raised her glass, and answered, "To many more!" before clinking it with Erik's as they both took their first sips.

The meal was delicious, even if Erik spent much of it trying to keep Meg's eager hands out of the food, and after clearing the dishes, the rest of their evening was spent reclining together on the red cushioned chairs in what would one day become the sitting room. "I need to build a settee," Erik remarked, as he bounced Meg gently on his knee, much to Annie's delight "and some small toys for Little Giry to play with. Then perhaps," he added, tapping her nose and causing her to squeal in delight, "she would not be so eager to play with her food!"

Seeing them together like this, Annie couldn't believe that she had ever feared Erik would reject Meg simply because she was Giles's daughter. In fact, that truth seemed to be of no consequence to him. He accepted her naturally, and whole heartedly, not seeming to spare a thought about the fact that she had been sired by Giles. Even though she bore the same blue eyes and blonde ringlets as her father, when Erik looked at her, Annie was all he could see.

Later that night, after Annie fed Meg one final time, they placed her down in her crib, and Erik sang her a lullaby as she drifted off to sleep. Then, taking Annie's hand, the two of them walked back to the bedroom that they would now share. As they stood beside the fur strewn bed, Erik gazed into Annie's eyes, cupping her cheek adoringly as he leaned in to kiss her. When he pulled back, Annie smiled at him and whispered, "Thank you, Erik. This was a perfectly wonderful way to spend a quiet evening at home."

Erik's heart skipped a beat when he heard her refer to his dwelling place in that affectionate way. He hadn't considered this chamber beneath the opera house as a true home—more of simply a place for him to stay where he could be near the love of his life. Now that Annie and her child were here with him, however, a home is what it had become. _Their_ home. And no place could be more beautiful.

"May it be the first of many," Erik responded, echoing her words from earlier, as he gathered her more fully into his arms and once again claimed her lips with his own.

* * *

And so, as the weeks passed, Erik Annie and little Meg fell into a comfortable routine. Erik would bid the Giry girls farewell every morning, after ferrying them across the lake, and then he happily sailed back, where he would spend his days adding to their _home_. He set about rebuilding more of the old furniture, making good on his promise to produce a settee on which he and Annie could relax in the evenings, and some wooden blocks for Meg. One of his more ambitious projects was a stove of their own, which he accomplished by tapping into the gas lines the opera used to power their grand chandelier, and it was with great pride that he created delicious dinners with his own hand that he could present to Annie every night.

The evenings, of course, were his favorite time, for it was then that Annie would return to the underground chamber, with little Meg on her hip. How his heart would leap at the first moment he would see them—the light in the darkness that his life would become if not for their presence. His eyes would go to Annie's first, meeting her sparkling gaze as he pulled her into his arms, drawing her close for a kiss he had anticipated all day. Undoubtedly, this would cause Meg to squeal, and he would release her mother and take the babe in his arms, greeting her as well.

"Good evening, Little Giry," he'd say lifting her high above him, eliciting shrieks of laughter from her tiny form. "You certainly are a giggly one today!" And then, pulling her closer so that he could kiss her cheek, he'd cradle her in one arm and tickle her tummy as he added, "Of course, you giggle all the time! Must be your mother's influence," he whispered conspiratorially.  
She was a giggly little thing as well. Not that she would ever admit to ever having been _little_."

Annie would roll her eyes, but she had to admit, it warmed her heart to watch them together. Her daughter was absolutely fascinated by Erik. Whenever they would venture below the opera house, Meg could not wait to get into Erik's arms—reaching and whimpering until he would at last gather her into his embrace—not that Annie could blame her. Erik was a natural with Meg. Which is why it came as such a surprise when one night even he could not make her stop crying.

"Come on now, Little Giry," he cooed as he stood in front of Annie, waving his arms in Meg's direction, dancing around and making any sort of silly face he could think of in an effort to make her stop crying. "Smile for me!"

"It's her teeth, Erik," Annie informed him, as she bounced Meg gently on her knee, very much amused by Erik's little performance, but distressed to see that it was not having the desired effect on his target audience. "They are really giving her a hard time, and nothing I do seems to help."

"I hate to hear her crying like this," he responded, "there must be something we can try." Leaning down, he scooped Meg into his arms, and smiled when she tentatively stopped crying. "That a girl, Little Giry!" he said, continuing his dance, with her in his arms. "Don't cry."

Though she was no longer screaming, she still looked miserable, and little whimpers continued to escape from her lips.  
"Now now, Little Giry," Erik teased in silvery tones, as he continued to bounce her around the room. "You are an expert on giggles! Surely you could spare one for your dear old Erik!" he crossed his eyes and puffed out his cheeks, hoping the absurdity would wipe the frown from her face. "Couldn't you?"

When Meg loosed the tiniest of giggles, Erik was greatly encouraged. Continuing with his silly faces, he persevered in trying to make her laugh, hoping it would relieve a bit of the pain in her gums. Soon she was squealing and flapping her hands wildly, as Erik carried her about the parlor, swinging her back and forth in the wide arcs of their dance. Annie was just about to declare him a miracle worker when Meg's hand suddenly grabbed Erik's mask and sent it hurtling to the floor.

A loud shriek, like Annie had not heard her daughter make before, issued forth from Meg's mouth, and all the progress they had made with Meg's disposition was lost before their very eyes. "Annie," Erik called, turning the right side of his face away from Meg as the child continued to scream. "Annie take her."

Annie was right there, removing her daughter from his arms, allowing Erik to crouch down and pick up the mask. When Meg saw that the mask was once again in place, her screaming was replaced with hitched breaths as she rubbed her eyes and hid her head in her mother's bosom.

"Erik," Annie said cautiously, as she rubbed her daughter's back, "she's all right."

"She appears to be ready," Erik said, awkwardly, not daring to look Annie in the eye, "for her night time feeding. I shall leave you to it," he added, walking stiffly out of the room.

Annie wished with all her heart that she could follow Erik, knowing that nothing good could possibly come from the look she had seen in his eyes. But she had a child that needed her, so sitting down on the settee, Annie held Meg to her breast and nursed her, stroking her hair and gazing into her eyes. The entire ordeal must have completely exhausted her daughter, because before long, Meg was fast asleep. Picking her up gently, so as not to wake her, Annie carried her daughter to her room, placing her gently in the crib Erik had made for her with his own two hands. Then it was off to find Erik, to see if she could undo the damage Meg's screams had done.

Annie found him in their bedroom, staring into the full length mirror he had purchased so that Annie could get ready in the mornings. "Of course I abhor mirrors, Annie," he had said the day he'd shown it to her, "but if this keeps you here even a few moments longer in the mornings, then I can grow to tolerate its presence."

But Erik's sweet, jovial spirit was nowhere to be found as he simply stood there, staring at his reflection, his mask trailing loosely from his hand.

"I don't even know how you can look at me, Annie," he murmured, letting her know he had detected her presence. "Even your child—an innocent babe—sees me as a monster..."

"Erik," Annie began patiently, moving forward to put her hands on the back of his shoulders. "Meg does not think you are a monster. She thinks the world of you—you know that. She was just cranky and startled when your mask came off. That's all it was. She doesn't know you without it, Erik."

"Then heaven has indeed shined upon her," Erik remarked, ruefully.

"Erik," Annie said again softly, choosing to ignore his self deprecating remark. "You are not a monster."

"Oh, but I am!" Erik smiled, a mirthless grin, as he replaced his mask before turning to face her. "If only you knew the depths to which I fell in Persia…"

"Persia…" Annie murmured, suddenly the unbelievable words of the letter she had found in Giles's drawer came flooding back to her. "I think it's time for you to tell me what happened in Persia, Erik. How did you wind up in that dungeon? I know you told me once before…" Annie added, pausing for a moment, "but I don't think you told me the whole truth."

Persia. Annie wanted to know what had happened in Persia. Suddenly, Erik was trembling and shaking his head saying, "I'm afraid…"

"Afraid of what, Erik?" Annie prodded gently, hating the sudden terror in his eyes.

Staring into her compassionate gaze, Erik muttered, "Afraid of losing you when you see what a monster I truly am."

"Remember, Erik," Annie reminded him, reaching up instinctively to remove his mask and tenderly cup his cheek, "I _see_ you, Erik. You could never be a monster to me…"

Scrunching up his eyes and shaking his head, he muttered, "We shall see…" With a heavy sigh, and a look of regret in his golden eyes, he drew Annie over to the bed, perching on its edge and gesturing for her to sit next to him, before launching into his tale.

"The Shah of Persia was a very wicked and manipulative man who learned my secrets very quickly and used them to his advantage. He played upon my weaknesses, Annie. I believed I was there to build a palace, but that was never what he truly wanted. He wanted an executioner who would create for him a chamber of horrors— _that_ was to be my role."

"I was truly disgusted," Erik shook his head, "when the man revealed his plans. I had it in my mind to leave—to forget my mission altogether and come home to you to admit my failure. But that night…" Erik paused and drew in a ragged breath, closing his eyes against the horrors that were replaying themselves in his mind, "he drugged my drink and tricked me… into committing murder."

Annie drew in a sharp breath and her eyes widened as she asked, "How?"

"Persia is a very different world, Annie," Erik began, "Harsh and depraved in every way. For the crowd's entertainment, a young woman was going to be violated in front of the entire court for a crime the shah himself coerced her into committing. It was not enough, apparently to punish her needlessly—he wished to put her shame on display for all to see. I heard her screaming, Annie, begging them for mercy. But all I saw was you the night when that bastard stepfather of yours tried tried to rape you. I lost all control, Annie. Before I knew what was happening, I was in the pit, and I had wrung the neck of the man who was going to attack her. The shah had created in me the murderer he wanted. And I was trapped."

Annie felt her heart shatter, and she reached out to embrace him, whispering, "Oh my poor Erik….my angel…"

"That's right, Annie," Erik nodded, hastily rising from the bed before her comforting arms could envelop him as he began a circuitous course around the room. "I _was_ known as an angel. The shah's own Angel of Death," he sneered in derision. "He kept me drugged for months—I was so far gone that I didn't know who I was anymore, Annie. All I knew was torture and death as I executed what I later came to realize were innocent victims day after day- making certain their last image of this life was of my monstrosity of a face."

"No, Erik," Annie sobbed in agony. "My God, I never should have let you go! I should have been there with you."

"NO!" Erik growled, turning to face her with fire in his eyes. "I could not imagine a greater horror than you being subjected to the perversion of that man! It would have destroyed me to see it." His voice softening just a bit, Erik knelt before her. "Besides, you _were_ with me, Annie," Erik took her hand gently in his, tracing slow, soft circles on the silky skin of her palm. "Because of the drugs," he continued," I could not remember that there had ever been any good in my life—that there had ever been anyone who loved me. I could not even recall your name, Annie, but visions of you came to me every night in my dreams. You were so close that I could smell you. I could _feel_ you. I ACHED for you," he tightened his grip on her hand, recalling the intensity of his need, "but when I tried to touch you…" his voice began to trail off as he relived the horror of not being able to touch her, "you would fade away."

"I'm here, Erik," Annie squeezed his hand tightly, "I'm here…"

"But _you_ were the one who finally broke through the haze, Annie," Erik covered over her palm with his other hand as he attempted a smile. "One night the shah tried to trick me by sending me one of his harem girls as a reward for service. At first my addled mind thought she was you, and I was overjoyed that I could finally touch what had always been just outside my grasp. Your name spilled forth ecstatically from my lips, but when it did, I instantly knew she wasn't you." Swallowing against the sudden lump that had formed in his throat, he whispered again, "She wasn't you."

Erik's breath was coming to him in short puffs as he relived the horror of that night. "I rejected her, Annie, and confronted the shah with the truth about what he was doing to me. I demanded my pay for services rendered and informed him that I would be leaving his wretched land in the morning. The man was enraged that I had finally broken free of his hold on me. He ordered his guards to seize me and…and throw me into the dungeon.

"His intention was to execute me, but when he searched my room, he found the letter you sent—a letter I had not even had the presence of mind to read. He tormented me with your beautiful words—reminding me again and again how I did not deserve your love."

"No, Erik," Annie breathed as she shook her head in sorrow, realizing the part her foolhardy impatience had played in the torturous treatment he had received.

"He decided" Erik continued, "it was a greater punishment to keep me alive but away from you." Meeting her gaze with tears in his eyes, he added, "And he was right, Annie, because without you I truly wished for death."

"Erik…" Annie sobbed, in agony to know how much he had been hurting.

"But once again, you brought me back," he continued. "Yasmin, the little slave girl assigned to bring me food—she heard me crying for you in the night. She did not know who you were, since at first I wouldn't even talk to her, but she was smart enough to know that using your name would allow her to wield power over me. She used your name and got me to eat—she used your name and got me to hope. It was for you that I decided to stay alive Annie. Even though I was sure I'd never see you again."

"I am grateful," Annie said, looking away in bitterness as she contemplated Yasmin's role in comforting him, when it should have been her, "she was there for you, Erik, when you needed me."

"Annie….," Erik assured her, placing his hand over his heart, "you were _always_ there. Even though, I never deserved you. I was evil, Annie," he added, in disgust. "I do not know how you can even bear to be in the same room with me—to allow me to touch you, or look upon your child." His voice hitching on a sob as he thought of Meg, Erik bowed his head in defeat, his shoulders slumping forward as the weight of his deeds bore down upon him.

Her need to comfort Erik outweighing her own belief that she had failed him, Annie reached up and took his face in her hands, making him look at her. " _You're_ not a monster, Erik. You never have been, Erik, and you never could be," she insisted, tears glistening in her eyes. "It was not you—it was the turmoil the shah _created_ in you by drugging you and forcing you to do his will. HE was the true monster, Erik, not you. You did not _choose_ to murder."

"Oh, but Annie," Erik hissed in a poisonous voice, "I did."

Cocking her head to the side, Annie looked at him in confusion, saying, "I don't understand."

Pulling himself to his feet, Erik stalked off a few paces, refusing to look in her direction, "I had been off the drugs for over a year," he began, his need to unburden his soul outweighing his fear of losing the woman he had never deserved anyway. "I had finally escaped the prison. I was free to leave Persia and never look back. But instead," Erik became very still, his eyes haunted by visions of that horrible night, "I crept inside the shah's window as he lay sleeping in his bed. And, of my own free will, I killed him, Annie. In that moment, I was the murderer that he wanted me to be. And this time, it wasn't the drugs. I did it because _I_ wanted him dead. I took his life for my own pleasure." Erik was once again standing before the mirror, gazing at his unmasked reflection with disgust and self-loathing. "Do you finally see me for what I truly am, Annie?" He asked, lifting his fist as if to smash the mocking glass. "A murderer? A fiend? A monster?" With his final word, his shoulders began to shake, his voice hitching on a sob, his fist falling feeble against the wooden frame, as his head leaning against the glass in defeat.

"Oh Erik," Annie whispered, her heart aching to see him so broken. Instantly closing the distance between them, she wrapped her arms around him from behind, pressing herself against him and leaning her head on his back. "I do not see a monster when I look at you," she assured him, squeezing him as tightly as she met his gaze in the mirror. "I do not see a murderer. I see you—as you _really_ are, Erik. You defended a girl who was to be violated, protecting her from a humiliating and violent attack. You rejected the lifestyle imposed upon you by the shah as soon as you found clarity from the haze that the drugs created within you. And though you willfully killed the shah, Erik, think of how many unknown innocents you saved by ending his miserable life. I _see_ you Erik. I always have. You are not a monster. You are _my_ _Erik_."

Erik squeezed his eye shut at her words of acceptance and leaned his head back to rest against the top of hers. Once again, Annie had proven that she possessed the strength to calm the savage beast that resided within him. He felt her precious lips begin to kiss his neck gently, working her way down his back as her deft fingers slowly unbuttoning his shirt so that she could soothe his troubled flesh with her own. Erik sucked in a tremulous breath as he felt her hands weave their way inside his shirt to caress and massage his chest, eventually, traveling lower to unfasten his trousers, allowing her to knead her hands along his hips.

His eyes shot open when he felt Annie's fingers glide forward and firmly close around his now awakened manhood. He gazed her a moment in the mirror's reflection, his jaw clenching as he took in the sight of her touching him—her look of absolute desire, and acceptance, and…something more… as she met his eyes in the mirror nearly wrecking him. Expertly she stroked, knowing exactly how to bring him to the very brink of pleasure. It was nearly enough to make him come undone, and before he lost all control, he brought her around to stand before him so that he was facing her. Without words, he kissed her, his lips vowing his endless devotion in a fevered dance against hers, as he slowly unfastened each tiny button on her dress. Pushing the obstructive material off her shoulders so that it could fall to the floor, Erik paused as Annie stepped out of the wicked garment, lifting her arms so he could remove her shift. With a final, sultry gaze, she then turned her back to him, pressing up against him as they both faced the mirror.

For the first time in his life, Erik was grateful for the reflective glass as he gazed into her eyes, while beginning to touch her breasts, pinching each taut pink pearl and relishing Annie's sighs of pleasure. His eyes were riveted to the mirror, which afforded him the ability to see, very clearly, the effect his touch was having on her, as her face contorted beautifully while the sensations he was creating washed over her. He marveled as she shivered and let her head fall back when he leaned his head low to suckle her neck. "You are so exquisite, Annie," he murmured soft and low into her ear as he ran his hands roughly along the outline of her curves. Pulling her ever more tightly against him, Erik loved the way his manhood felt as it rubbed against her smooth backside, and he let his hands travel lower, his fingers gliding against that most sensitive nub nestled between her thighs. Annie emitted a breathy moan at the feel of his touch, and the silky wetness all over his fingers announced that she was ready for him. He could not resist teasing her—sliding himself once, twice, against her glistening entrance before finally slipping inside her welcoming folds, meeting her wonder-filled gaze in the glass, as his love entered physically into her body. Moving in perfect rhythm, their eyes locked the entire time, they made love slowly and languidly, crying out in ecstatic abandon when together they reached their peaks and tumbled over passions edge.

Both momentarily stunned by the ferocity of their pleasure, they collapsed forward onto the mirror, their legs weak, their lungs heaving for air. Once he had recovered his strength, Erik turned Annie around, and just hugged her closely to him. Never did he feel more like himself that when he was firmly bound in Annie's arms. Only with her could he ever be truly whole. Pulling back slightly from their embrace, so that he could once again look in her eyes, he felt himself overcome with emotion.

"Annie, I…I…," he began to whisper, too overwhelmed to be able to continue.

"Shh," Annie whispered, tilting her head upwards and capturing his lips to silence him. "No words, Erik," she murmured into the kiss. "We don't need words. All we need is this. All we need is now."

When they separated, Erik just looked at her, gazing in adoration at the woman who would always make him complete. "Thank you Annie," he uttered with an exhausted sigh. And with their arms wrapped firmly around each other's waists, they stumbled to bed, holding each other tightly in their sleep.

 **AN: Well, now all the secrets from Persia are out. Seems like Annie handled them well. But she still cannot handle hearing Erik say he loves her...**


	93. Chapter 93

CH 93:

Erik awoke to fretful whimpers that told him Meg was awake—and not feeling much better if her cries were any indication. He opened his eyes to find Annie still snuggled close beside him, her head resting in the crook of his arm. His heart squeezing with the memories of how she cared for him last night, he pressed his lips gently against her forehead marveling at how he was growing to love her more and more each day. He breathed in deeply reveling in the scent of her hair, and had almost lulled him back into an intoxicated sleep when he heard Meg cry out again. Not wishing to disturb the beautiful angel who slept in his arms, Erik gently extricated himself from her embrace, placing another gentle kiss on her perfect, rosy cheek, before tying on his dressing gown, donning his mask, and making his way over to Meg.

She had pulled herself up on the side of her crib, and was now bouncing in place unhappily, impatient to be released her from her captivity.

"Good morning, Little Giry," Erik purred in greeting, as he lifted her out of her crib and into his arms. "Are you feeling any better?"

Meg immediately stopped her fussing, and gazed intently at Erik's face. Lifting her little fingers to the side of his mask, she touched it tentatively before quickly yanking her hand away.

"Yes, little one," Erik said, careful to keep his voice low and smooth. Memories of the incident the night before began to fill his mind with panic, but as he gazed into Meg's innocent blue eyes, he knew her had to remain calm. For her. "You had quite a fright last night, didn't you?" he added, meeting her curious gaze. "You were not expecting for that to come off, were you?" he gently took her hand and placed it once again to the fabric that was covering the right side of his face, to show her that it was alright for her to touch. "But you see this is not my face," he told her, as her little fingers began to explore. "My face is very ugly, and I wear a mask to cover it up. I wouldn't want everyone I meet to start screaming like you did," he chuckled, tapping Meg's nose and making her giggle.

"I was so worried last night that you were afraid of me," he told her, relishing the way she calmly sat in his arms, realizing that she showed no fear. "But your mother swore to me that you were just startled." Knowing he shouldn't tempt fate, but finding that he had a macabre urge to discover the truth, Erik slowly brought his hand to his mask. "Is it true?" he asked, as he untied the fastener with one finger. "Were you just surprised to see me looking so different?"

With trembling hand, he carefully removed the fabric from his face, his eyes always on Meg, ready to replace the covering if she were to get upset. But she did not scream and she did not cry. Her gaze grew very intent, as if she were trying to piece together the puzzle of Erik's ever changing visage, but she showed no sign of distress.

"Do you see, now, Little Giry?" Erik asked, as he pulled the mask fully away from his face, then held it back in place before removing it once more. "There is no monster here to scare you—no bad man who has come to do you harm—it's still me—your Erik—just without the mask."

Erik held his breath, certain that at any moment, his luck would run out, and Meg would rouse Annie with screams of terror, scrambling to get away from the beast that held her in his arms. Instead of growing alarmed, however, Meg placed her hand on his cheek—the deformed one that had been covered by the mask—and gently began to squeeze, a little grin creeping over her features and she discovered the unique texture of his wrinkled skin.

Erik felt so much joy when he saw that little smile, that he felt for certain his heart would burst. "That's right, Little Giry," he said, his voice catching in his throat. "I'm still your Erik. And mask or no mask, I will _always_ love you, and be here to keep you safe."

Hearing those words come from Erik's mouth was a blow to Annie's ears. She had been leaning against the entrance to the little recess, quietly watching the exchange between her daughter and her lover. She'd been relieved to hear that Erik truly seemed to understand the reason for Meg's cries. But then he had told her daughter he loved her. Those were words Annie had not been ready to hear. They spoke of affection. They spoke of permanence. They spoke of…forever. _I will always love you, Antoinette…you and Meg were the best things that ever happened to me._

 _Forgive me, Giles…._

"Erik!" Annie exclaimed, as if she were just now flouncing into the room. "Why didn't you wake me?"

Turning to her with a contented smile, he answered, "You were sleeping so soundly. I didn't want to disturb you. Besides," he glanced once again over at Meg, "Little Giry and I had everything under control."

"Yes, well," she stammered, hurriedly whisking Meg out of his arms, "It's late! We have to hurry if we are going to meet Giselle."

"All right, Annie," Erik said, helping her gather the things she would need to leave with the kind nanny for the day, while Annie quickly fed her daughter.

When both Meg and Annie were dressed and ready, Erik sailed them over to the other side of the lake. As Annie hastened out of the boat, a bit frazzled, Erik reached out and took her hand. "Have a good day, Annie," he told her, sweetly. "I'll miss you. _Both_ of you."

Taking a moment to spare him a quick smile, she simply responded, "We'll be home later, Erik," before gathering Meg securely in her arms and starting her journey up to Box 5.

* * *

"Good morning, Giselle," Annie said as she opened the door. "And Alain," she added, swooping down to lift the toddler onto her hip, "it is so good to see you too, young man! You're getting so big!"

"He is eating me out of house and home!" Giselle responded, rolling her eyes affectionately at her handsome young child. "He is definitely going through a growth spurt!"

"Well, thank heavens he's healthy," Annie commented, lowering the young boy to the floor, where he immediately dropped to his knees to play alongside Meg.

"Yes," Giselle agreed. "For that I am very grateful. It is just another thing for which I am indebted to Monsieur Giry. He always made sure that Alain wanted for nothing—just as you do now. Thank you, Antoinette."

"Do not think of it!" Annie chided. "Look at how you take care of Meg for me! We must take care of each other!"

Giselle smiled, as the women once again glanced down to where the children were playing. "I must say, Antoinette," Giselle began, glancing back at her friend, "you look wonderful."

Startled, Annie chuckled and said, "Why thank you, Giselle. You look lovely yourself this morning."

"But you have had to deal with so much, losing your husband at such a young age. And yet here you are," she added. "You are positively glowing! I wouldn't have expected it, especially since you and Monsieur Giry were so obviously in love—the perfect couple—always so happy together. When he looked at you, Antoinette," she continued, a faraway look in her eyes, "there was no doubt you were the _only_ woman on his mind." With a heavy sigh, she said, "I hope I get to experience that one of these days. Obviously, I have not been so lucky in love."

Annie had grown increasingly uncomfortable as Giselle had been talking, and she wished she could yell at her—scream from the rooftop that the girl did not know what she was talking about. Lucky in love? How could she ever believe that? One lover stolen away from her, the other sent to an early grave—by Annie's estimates, love had been responsible for more than a fair share of the misery she had experienced in life. Luck was not the word she would use to describe her experience with love. Loss, regret, misgivings—she had far more experience with those emotions than she ever had with luck. She had never loved without losing—and she was not sure that she could survive another loss.

"Giselle, I really must be getting to work," she said, hoping her friend would take her hint that the conversation was over. "Rehearsals…"

"I know, Antoinette," Giselle smiled, lifting Meg up onto her hip, trailing a hand down to Alain. "You always were all about rehearsals. I'll see you this evening!"

"Thank you, Giselle," Annie nodded, watching as the three made their way out of the apartment door.

"Lucky in love," Annie muttered under her breath, as she gathered her things to go, shaking her head at the incredulity of it all. She supposed it was possible to look in on her situation from the outside, and believe that Annie had, for a time, been living in a dream. As Giselle had said, her husband had always made it clear that she was the only woman on his mind, in his heart, and certainly in his bed. However, her traitorous heart made it impossible for her to say the same. SO many nights Erik had been between them, woven there, inextricably, into the very fiber of her being. She had never been able to truly rid herself of him—even begging him to stay when he returned from Persia, though she knew the proper thing for a married woman to do would have been to allow him to leave. She had never honored Giles properly as a wife while he had been alive—and now, she seemed to be dishonoring him as a widow too—even sharing his child with the very man who had so often come between them as husband and wife.

 _Forgive me, Giles,_ she muttered as she glanced into the entry way mirror before leaving her apartment, _for you were not lucky_. But even as she stood there, praying for her husband's forgiveness, images of Erik moving behind her, his hands squeezing her naked breasts, his eyes heavy with ecstasy flashed before her mind. _But I can't give him up._

* * *

As Erik made his way back across the lake, visions of the previous night ran through his mind over and over. Of course, making love to Annie was always incredible, and there were times when he could still scarcely believe that he had been granted the privilege of being her lover. And yet, last night had seemed somehow different. He had laid himself bare to her—revealing to her his deepest, darkest secrets. He had been so certain it would be enough—that she would finally see the monster everyone else had always told him he was—the beast he believed himself to be. And yet, she had accepted him so completely—joyfully receiving his body and his soul. Their lovemaking had seemed to be so much more than passion, a much much greater pull than desire. Annie had looked upon him with so much love in her gaze—touching him with so much intimacy and tenderness as she soothed the horrors out of his agonized flesh. And Erik _felt_ that he was loved as she led him out of his darkness and back home to her light. My Erik, she had whispered, as she'd claimed him as her own. And certainly he had no doubt that he truly did belong to her.

And yet, he wondered as he sat on his settee, reading and rereading the same page of the latest novel he had purchased at the bookstore, was _she_ truly _his_? Her body was, he had no doubt. And he had to believe that he owned at least a piece of her heart. But in name she still belonged to Giry—and the gold band she still wore on her finger clearly marked her as his. And though he truly adored beautiful little Meg, Annie _had_ created her with Giles—and that was a bond the two would share throughout eternity.

And it did not escape him that she could never say she loved him. Before he had left for Monaco, he and Annie could barely go and hour without declaring their love for one another. She would have shouted her love from the mountaintops if given the chance. But since his return, Annie had made no mention of the feelings in her heart. He knew her husband had been dead for only a few short months, but the propriety of the situation had not stopped her from willingly giving him her body, over and over. Yet oftentimes, Erik got the distinct impression that she was holding back her soul, for even when he felt moved to tell her how much he loved her—she always found some way to stop him.

 _We don't need words._ She had muttered to him last night, as he had begun to lay his heart bare. _All we need is this. All we need is now._

Erik felt an anxious knot forming in his stomach. He knew he needed so much more than now. With Annie, he needed forever.

Rising from the settee, he let his book fall to the floor as he nervously ran his hand through his hair. He _had_ to see her. He knew she was working, and she would not want to be disturbed, but he suddenly felt as if he would not be able to breath until he once again gazed upon her. He had gone years being forced to live without her—he would no longer deny himself her presence, even if he had to content himself with watching her as she worked.

Leaping back into the boat, he hurriedly made his way back across the lake and climbed the stairs up to Box 5 two at a time. Moving silently into the still abandoned box, he stealthily crept to the front so he could watch Annie undetected. She was standing at center stage, leading the corps in warm-ups and stretching exercises. Erik's heart raced as he took in her beauty. Despite all the nights she had spent sleeping naked beside him, or the pleasurable moments when her fully naked body had been tangled in his embrace, Erik found himself still so moved by the sight of her in her dancer's leotard—and by the grace with which she moved her body when she danced. He continued to stare as she extended her legs into a full split, and he felt his mouth go dry as she leaned her torso slowly backward. Watching her in this provocative pose, he longed so desperately to be above her—within her—and as he felt his manhood begin to grow with his need, he saw Annie suddenly glance up in his direction. And if he wasn't mistaken, there was a wry smirk on her face.

Annie felt it the moment Erik had entered Box 5—just as she always knew when he was around. Her senses tingled, and her heart began to beat faster, and sure enough, when she glanced up in the direction of Box 5, she could just detect a shadow—imperceptible to anyone else—that let her know she was right. Erik was there—and he was watching. So, entirely sick of the self loathing thoughts that had plagued her on and off all morning, Annie smirked as she decided she was going to give him a show.

The split was the first move that she knew would drive him crazy, but she did not stop there. No, Annie reached forward, extending her arm to touch the tip of her toes, and slowly brought her torso up, her fingers sliding along the length of her leg as she did so, before repeating the performance with her other leg. Then she stretched her arms up, over her head, letting her eyes close as she jutted her breasts outward, rolling her pelvis forward with an exaggerated sensuality that she knew was sure to make Erik's trousers tighten.

It was not long before she was proven right by a whispered growl in her left ear.

"Box 5 NOW Annie," came the urgent command. "Your curtain is in danger."

Proud of her success, Annie rose from the floor. "I must attend to some business in the office," she told the dancers, "But you should continue the routine as you were. I will be back shortly."

Annie hurried on her way and as soon as she pushed open the door to Box 5, Erik attacked her with devouring lips and groping hands.

"Nice little show you put on there, _mistress_!" he snarled as his hands pulled at her leotard frantically, exposing her breasts so that he could hungrily suck them into his mouth.

"I had hoped you would like it!" she purred, as she quickly dropped her hands to his trousers, only to find that he had already unfastened them for her. He had obviously wanted to be ready.

"Oh, I did!" he growled as he lifted her up onto the little shelf where they almost given their virginity to each other once before. "Now I'm going to show you how much!"

Pushing her skirts up high around her waist, Erik slammed inside her, his hands on her bottom to hold her tightly against him. His lips swallowed the mewls of delight that resounded from her mouth as he urgently thrust into her again and again, delight and pleasure beginning to mount rapidly for both of them.

"Do you belong to me, Annie?" He growled as he felt himself surge toward completion, "Are you mine?"

"Yes, Erik," she sighed, her face flushed with her own quickly approaching climax.

"Say it, Annie" he demanded through gritted teeth, desperately trying to hold off his own fulfillment until he heard the words he longed for her to say. "I need to hear you say it."

"I belong to you, Erik," she moaned as she threw back her head, the passion finally overtaking her. "I am yours."

"And I am yours," he gasped as his orgasm hit him hard, unable to hold in a harsh roar as his body spilled itself into her.

Clinging to each other, in the wake of their passion, they both fought for breath as they came down from their high. When finally Annie could find the strength to summon words, she murmured, "Well, Erik, that was definitely the most fun I've ever had at work!"

Snickering at her joke, Erik stroked her cheek and kissed her tenderly. "I aim to please," he whispered as he moved in to kiss her again.

"But," Annie said, placing her finger between his mouth and hers, "now I need to get back to work and do some damage control."

"Damage control?" he asked her quizzically as she moved out of his embrace to straighten her leotard and smooth her skirts.

"Yes, damage control," she smirked, "because I am sure that after your glorious finish the ballerinas will be all a twitter that the Opera Ghost has risen again. And of course," she giggled seductively, letting her eyes fall down toward his still unfastened trousers, "they would be right. But," she quickly lightened her tone of voice, "they have no reason to worry since _I_ have already taken care of it." And meeting Erik's eye with a sincere smile, she added, "Just as I will _always_ take care of the ghost."

Overcome with love for this beautiful woman who had just promised with her words and with her body, that she belonged to him, Erik began to whisper, "Annie, I…"

Again, however, Annie cut him off with a kiss, saying "I've got to go."

Leaving Erik quite flustered, she turned and walked toward the door. Before leaving, however, she threw a smile over her shoulder, and whispered, "I'll be home tonight—for a repeat performance!" And then with a wink, she slipped out the door.

 **AN: Well, Annie and Erik finally broke in Box 5! So naughty!**


	94. Chapter 94

CH 94:

When Annie returned to the auditorium she informed the girls that their overactive imaginations were responsible for the sounds they claimed they had heard. "There is no such thing as ghosts! The only thing haunting this opera house is your disgraceful laziness! No more of your nonsense!" And with a crack of her baton, she called them to order. "We rehearse! Now!"

And so as the summer nights gave way once again to autumn evenings, the underground dwelling place began, more and more to resemble a home. Erik had finally finished the settee, and he and Annie would snuggle together as Meg played at their feet on the cozy rug Erik had purchased to cover the cold floor. She adored the blocks he had crafted for her, and spent endless hours banging them together and creating quite a cacophonous racket.

"Perhaps she has a future as a percussionist," Annie would tease, when Erik could no longer hold back a painful grimace.

"Let's hope," he would answer, scooping Meg into his arms and attempting to redirect her with a book, "that she obtains a sense of rhythm first…"

However, Erik truly enjoyed the night Meg toddled around the sitting room, her chunky little legs performing a ponderous dance as he hummed a made-up tune.

"She's obviously going to take after her mother and become a little dancer herself," he declared proudly, his golden eyes sparkling as he added, "She will one day be the jewel of the stage…"

Annie released a sigh laced with mild irritation and said, "It's just like you, Erik, to have her future planned out already. Does she have any say in the matter?"

Erik glanced over at Annie, detecting her minor annoyance, but too swept away by the adorable child giggling and bouncing in the center of the room. "Oh, I'm sure I'll be able to convince her."

With a roll of her eyes, Annie nodded, "Yes, you're good at that."

"Is something troubling you, Annie?" Erik asked, his attention fully on her now, as there could be no more mistaking that his beloved was irked by something.

"No, not really," Annie answered, slumping back a bit, against the settee. "Truly, I am just tired and my stomach has been bothering me lately. I think," she added with a frown, "after all this time, my womanly cycle might finally be returning."

Erik continued to gaze at Annie sympathetically. He knew she had been free of her womanly cycle since Meg had been born, slightly over a year before. Remembering how Annie had viewed the start of her very first menstruation as a death sentence, Erik tried to be sensitive. "I'll be here, Annie, to stroke your hair, and make you warm tea to soothe all the aches and twinges." Erik told her, squeezing her hand. "We will get through it," he leaned over and gave her a little kiss on the forehead, "together."

Annie closed her eyes as his soothing words reached her ears and his tender lips touched her skin. Erik was being so wonderful—so caring—so _loving_. Why did she feel like bolting off the settee, and running out the door?

It wasn't that she didn't cherish the time she spent with Erik. Every single day, as she dealt with cheeky ballerinas or befuddled managers, she found her mind wandering to the way Erik's eyes would smolder, the way his lips would kiss her—the way his fingertips felt when he touched… Oh, the way he touched her made her body sing night after night. Theirs was a passion unmatched by anything she had ever known in life. Not even the thrill of the dance could equal the exhilaration of Erik's body moving against her—within her—the ecstasy of his tongue touching hers. She never felt so free as when she was locked in Erik's embrace.

And yet, ever since the night Erik's mask had come off and frightened Meg, there had been the slightest inkling of fear. Not fear of the misdeeds that he had tearfully confessed to her—Annie had fully meant it when she told Erik that the shah had been the true monster. Rather, a fear that would present itself when she saw the look of adoration with which he greeted her at the end of the day, or the joy with which he liberated Meg from her arms, and told her how much he had missed her. For she knew that she had missed him too—and not just the feeling of him working feverishly above her in bed. She had missed the lilt in his voice when he said her name—the crinkle in the corner of his exposed eye when he smiled. She had missed the tenderness with which he grasped her hand as he guided her into the boat, or the affection with which he spoke to Meg, who could do little more than coo or giggle back at him in return. She had missed _him_ —not just his body, but his soul—the very spirit that made him who he was. And that was the thing that terrified her the most. For she knew that she was not acting very much like a grief stricken widow.

She had been able to justify her actions, however, when it was just her body that was betraying her marriage vows. Her husband was dead, after all. It was almost expected that she, as a young widow with a child, would one day move on with her life. So she had started the process a bit more quickly than most. Some would say her obligation to Giles had ended on the day he lost his life. Who could really blame her for finding a way to fill her emptiness—a way to meet her body's need for release.

But Annie should have known it could never be that simple with Erik. Her heart was never supposed to have become involved in her efforts to combat the numbness that filled her soul and jolt her being back to life. Her heart was supposed to have perished with her husband. And yet, sitting here, gazing into Erik's soft golden eyes, she felt that battered organ stirring back to life—and betraying her once again.

"I will be fine Erik," Annie told him in a clipped tone, yanking her hand back and folding her arms in front of her chest. "I am a big girl now. I can certainly handle the return of my menstrual cycle."

Erik nodded, a bit confused still at her irritability, but knowing that it could be a symptom of the very phenomenon they were discussing, he wisely decided to let it go. Gazing back at Meg, as she spun around again and again on the setting room floor, Erik murmured softly, "That is the thing I regret the most, Annie."

"My menstrual cycle?" she asked, looking over at him with narrowed eyes.

"No," Erik chuckled, placing his arm around her back and giving her a quick squeeze. "Although I deplore that it causes you pain, I was talking about the fact that I never got to see you as Prima Ballerina."

"Oh Erik," Annie responded, rolling her eyes. "You have seen me dance countless times!"

"But only once on stage," Erik countered, "as a member of the corps, due to my own

foolish actions. And yet, even then, I could not keep my eyes off of you. I imagine you were absolutely exquisite as Prima Ballerina," he added wistfully. Then, pulling her close he whispered in her ear, "But of course, you are always absolutely exquisite to me." And leaning over, Erik joined his lips to hers.

Annie closed her eyes as Erik kissed her, and she felt that familiar heat beginning to rise up in her core. Regardless of the fear that was there when she considered the emotions that were beginning to tug at her heart whenever she thought of him, the connection between their bodies absolutely took Annie's breath way, and it was impossible to stop herself from responding. Releasing a breathy moan, Annie opened her mouth and deepened their kiss letting her tongue play at the outline of his lips, coaxing him to allow her entry.

Before long, however, their kiss was broken by a little voice calling out "Papa!"

Erik felt Annie immediately tense as she hissed in a loud breath. Pulling widely apart from one another, they opened their eyes to see that Meg had toddled her way over to them and placed her hands on Erik's knees—where she was currently standing, gazing up at him expectantly. Erik looked at the beautiful girl with the mop of golden curls and sparkling blue eyes and felt his heart clench at the beauty of that word falling from her lips. If he had not been such a fool, insisting on leaving Paris to find his fortune, she truly might be his child. Her flaxen hair might have been a bold ebony, and her eyes a chocolate brown, but she would have been no less beautiful—for she would have been Annie's. And she would have been his. Oh how he wished with all his heart in that moment that he _was_ Meg's true father—that he hadn't made the absurd decision to leave Annie, allowing her to marry and conceive this exquisite child with another man. But Giles _had_ been a good man—that much he had to admit. Meg could not be allowed to forget him.

"Little Giry," Erik said, picking Meg up and placing her firmly on his knee, "you know that

my name is Erik."

"E-wik," Meg parroted back, having a bit of trouble pronouncing the r.

"That's right," he said again, " _Erik_. I am not your papa. But I love you anyway." And placing a kiss on her forehead, he wrapped her in a tight hug.

Annie did not know what to say, as an image of a young boy with curly dark hair flashed once again in her mind. He was the child of her dreams—the child that had never been born. She had imagined him having been born out of her union with Erik and she had clung to that image of the beautiful dark child until life had placed a delicate golden angel in her arms. An angel that had been wanted, and cherished and loved—so very much—by both her mother _and_ her father. And no matter how wonderful Erik was with Meg, it would not be right to allow her daughter to think of him as her father. Giles should always hold that place in his little daisy's heart.

 _Honor him at least as the father of your child_ , _Annie_ , she could hear an inner voice say. _If you cannot honor him as his wife._

When Erik loosed his hold on Meg, and once again let her down to play, Annie took a deep breath. Swallowing hard Annie looked at her daughter as she said, "Thank you, Erik, for saying what you said. For not letting her think you were her father. It would not be right," she added, looking down awkwardly, "for her to forget Giles."

"He is her father," Erik answered, also looking at the beautiful flaxen haired girl who played at his feet. "But no matter," Erik added, glancing over at Annie then quickly back to Meg. "I will always love her as if she were my own."

Annie nodded, saying nothing more, but as Erik's fingers reached out and closed around her palm, she once again felt the fear inside her rise.

* * *

Erik smiled as the brisk wind whipped the collar of his cloak against his face. When he and Annie were younger and living in their cave in the woods, Autumn had been his favorite time of year. The bursting colors had always served as the perfect backdrop for Annie's dark beauty—the cooling air coloring her cheeks a dusty rose. How he had missed this time with his beloved all those years in Persia. He had dreamed of hearing the crunch of the leaves beneath her feet as she danced under the stars. But now, finally, he would be able to enjoy the delights of the season with the woman he loved—and that included her birthday.

That was the reason for this morning's visit to the market. It was Annie's birthday, and he wanted to surprise her with a small token of his appreciation, and perhaps a cake that they could share with Meg. Of course, he knew that no gift he could give her would ever compare to the perfect prize she had bestowed upon him the first time they had spent this day together—all those years ago when she decided that her birthday would be _their_ birthday—that they would share the day and celebrate each other. That day, she had given him his first kiss—a boon for which he had wished his entire life. He had never understood, until that moment, the true sweetness of a kiss or the generative power of love. For her kiss had woken him from a long, deep slumber—her love had given him life.

When he came to the flower cart, he pulled his fedora low before choosing a bouquet of long stemmed red roses. Though a thousand blooms could never come close to matching her beauty, he hoped his meaning would come across. He had always thought the rose was the perfect embodiment of Annie's spirit—strong, resilient, and oh so very beautiful.

Afterward, he selected a small cake from the patisserie, just perfect for he, Annie, and Little Giry to share. On his way back to the opera house, he passed by the jeweler's shop, and though he already had his flowers in hand, he could not help but stop a moment to gaze at the baubles and jewels they had displayed in their window. While there were several lovely pieces in the shop, they all paled in comparison to the ring Yasmin had given to him to give to Annie.

Erik smiled as he thought of the fiery yellow topaz surrounded by the circlet of diamonds. It would look utterly exquisite on the ring finger of Annie's left hand. Time had passed since her husband's death and things had been so good between them, that he had high hopes he would be able to give her the ring soon. Finally, he thought, his heart brimming with joy, after all this time she would take her rightful place as his wife. They could be bound to one another in the eyes of the law the way their hearts and souls were already united. And the three of them—he, Annie, and Little Giry could finally be a family.

* * *

"Happy birthday, Antoinette!" Giselle exclaimed by way of greeting, flashing a warm smile when Annie opened her apartment door.

The salutation surprised her, since Annie had completely forgotten it was her birthday—but still she managed a smile. "Thank you, Giselle," she said with appreciation. "You're very kind."

"So," Giselle asked. "Would you like to stay for dinner tonight to celebrate? I can make a cake and…"

Annie shook her head as she realized that she had not only overlooked her own birthday—but Erik's. Regardless of the confusion she had been feeling lately, it was the first one they would be able to celebrate together since he returned from Persia. She had to make it special for him—and she thought she knew just the way.

"You know, Giselle, I completely forgot that it was my birthday…," Annie told her truthfully. "And actually, it has been so busy at the opera house that I had planned to stay a little late at work tonight to catch up on some things. I am going to have to skip the celebration, but would you mind keeping Meg with you overnight?"

"That doesn't sound like much of a birthday plan," Giselle protested in disappointment.

"Nevertheless," Annie responded. "It would help me a great deal."

"Very well, Antoinette!" Giselle relented. "I will be happy to keep Meg. It's just that you have had so much stress in your life in these past few months that I hope you can find some way to enjoy this birthday."

"I have no doubt that I shall," Annie assured her with a smile. "Thank you, Giselle."

* * *

Erik could not wait to take Annie into his arms, present her with the roses and wish her a Happy Birthday. But when he reached the dock across the lake, all he saw was a note, tacked to the post where he would normally secure the boat.

 _I am afraid I must stay late tonight to work on choreography, but meet me around 10 in the auditorium. Sit in the front row. –A_

 _PS: Meg will be staying the night with Giselle_

Erik's eyes moved from the note to the roses he held in his hand, as he heaved a disappointed sigh. He had wanted so much to make this birthday special for Annie—and if he were being completely truthful, for himself as well. It had been too long since they had been together to celebrate this happy day. But he supposed he could just bring the roses to the auditorium later, and the cake he could save for another day. After all, he thought, his heart growing lighter, now that he had Annie back, every day was a celebration.

Erik spent the next few hours trying to be productive on several different projects he was attempting, but eventually abandoned his efforts when he found himself far too distracted to make any real progress. When the time finally came for their meeting, he once again sailed across the lake and ascended the stone staircase two steps at a time, so eager to finally see her. When he arrived in the auditorium, however, Annie was nowhere to be found.

The interior was dark, with only a few candles softly illuminating the front of the spacious room. The stage was set with the magical scene from Mozart's opera where the Queen of the Night sings her vengeful aria, a softly draped bed taking center stage.

Intrigued, Erik walked to front row, as he had been instructed. There, on the center seat, he found an elegant violin, crafted out of the finest spruce and rosewood, along with a sheet of music—a note written in Annie's familiar hand attached.

 _Erik—the stage is set and the lights are dimmed. All that is missing now is the music. Would the Masked Musician please be so kind as to accompany the Wild Dancing Rose?"—A._

Erik drew in a hitched breath, picking up the instrument with trembling hands. He had not played the violin since arriving in Persia, having left his old, battered instrument behind in Monaco. He reverently ran his fingers along the glowing wood, a lump forming in his throat as it dawned on him that he would be playing at the very seat of music's throne—for his own beloved rose. Giving a quick study to the sheet before him—a familiar melody which he had played many times back at the old marketplace—he lifted the bow in his hand with great tenderness and gently began to draw it against the strings.

At the music's cue, Annie entered the stage, and the song faltered just a bit as she took Erik's breath away. She was dressed all in white, the slivery threads running through the bodice glowing and shimmering along her womanly curves. Her diaphanous skirt flowed freely down to her ankles, a pair of familiar pink satin slippers peeking out from beneath the gauzy cloud. Her raven mane was tied back into the customary ballerina bun, and her full, tantalizing lips were painted the deepest red.

Lifting herself onto her toes, she floated gracefully across the floor, completely mesmerizing Erik with her beauty. Though he continued to play—his fingers instinctively remembering where to touch, where to press—his gaze never left the ethereal vision that was gliding effortlessly before him. Annie entranced him—she captivated him—and he knew, without a doubt, that his heart was irrevocably lost to the dancing angel on the stage.

As if by their own volition, Erik's legs slowly began to carry him toward her, just as Annie's routine drew to a close. The dance complete, the song over, Erik and Annie stood very close, facing one another. They felt, more than heard, each other's breathing, as their chests moved up and down in tandem.

"Happy Birthday, My Erik," Annie whispered with a smile.

Erik swallowed hard before responding, "Happy Birthday, my prima ballerina," his rich baritone raspy with emotion. Once again, Annie knew just how to reach him—just how to touch him—and she had, for the second time in his life, presented him with the perfect birthday gift.

Annie relished the look of absolute awe in Erik's eyes. Raising onto her tip toes, she sweetly kissed his lips, then watched as he crouched to the ground, gently setting down the violin, while keeping his eyes locked with hers the entire time. Slowly, he stood to his full height, taking her face into his hands. "Annie," he whispered a husky plea, "let down your hair."

Slowly, languidly, Annie lifted her hands to the back of her head. Never letting her gaze falter from his, one by one, she removed the pins from her bun. Little by little, her ebony tresses tumbled out of their knot, cascading down to fall about her shoulders and hang low over her breasts. If possible, Erik's eyes glazed over with even greater desire, and Annie shivered when she saw him reach forward and tangle his fingers within the waves, lifting a handful to his face so that he could breathe in their heavenly scent, his eyes finally closing in delight.

Neither of them could find the words to express the emotions that were roiling between them, but the music of their mingled sighs wafted through the air as they gently unfastened hooks and loosed buttons, peeling away the garments that rudely stood between them. When they were standing naked before one another, Annie lead Erik over to the bed.

Gesturing for him to lie down, Annie tenderly removed his mask and kissed his face thoroughly, taking her time to make sure her lips traveled every peak and valley of the twisted skin beneath, reminding him how precious his haunted visage had always been to her. After a time, her lips traveled down the column of his neck to the firm plane of his chest, where her tongue traced a line of ecstasy along each and every scar. Erik was nearly delirious with desire as Annie dared to move even lower and trace her lips along his taut stomach, swirling her tongue across the hollows of his hips.

Erik's swollen manhood was hot against her cheek, and she lovingly turned her head to place a little kiss on its tip. But when Erik sucked in a sharp gasp at her gesture, his hips bucking up wildly against her, Annie knew she needed to give him more. Her eyes gazing up at him to gauge his reaction, she slowly let her lips close around him, sliding her mouth tantalizingly down his length.

Erik's cry was one of absolute abandon, as he threw his head back in ecstasy, his eyes tightly shut, even as his mouth fell wide open. Annie drank in the euphoria on his face, drowning in his rapturous sounds as she continued to pleasure him with her lips and tongue. Soon, however, her own overwhelming need for him became impossible to deny. Releasing him from her mouth, she crawled up the length of his body, only to engulf him once again within her core.

Opening his eyes Erik looked up at the exquisite woman above him. Her hair forming a dark halo around her head, her dark eyes shining, Erik realized that Annie had never been more beautiful—and that he had never loved her more than at that moment.

Pulling himself up into a sitting position, he wrapped his arms tightly around her back, before whispering in her ear, "I needed to be closer."

"Always closer, Erik," Annie sighed, as she tangled her hands in his hair, bringing his mouth against hers. "I always want you closer." Their lips crushed against each other desperately, as they continued the push on toward their completion. When that blessed moment hit, they clung securely to one another, holding on for dear life as they rode out passion's wave.

For a few moments, neither one of them could move—neither one of them could breath. They each had to wait for the world to stop spinning.

Annie became aware of the softness of Erik's hair against her cheek, the strength with which he clutched her body to his. She waited for a moment, wondering when that sense of dread would arrive—that niggling feeling that she should run. But instead she only felt the need to draw him even closer against her heart, and tightening her arms around him, she did.

"Once again, Annie," Erik murmured, finally, as he buried his head even deeper into her shoulder, "you have given me the most exquisite birthday present."

Running her fingers lazily through his hair, she whispered, "So did you, Erik."

After a few more sweet kisses, Annie demanded, "Erik, take me home."

"I would be delighted," was his only response, knowing that soon, they would be living together in that home as a family. He could not possibly wait much longer before giving Annie his ring. He had to have her as his wife.

Quickly, they got dressed and Erik took her hand as they walked toward the stage steps. Before leaving it, however, he stopped to pick up the violin.

"I'm keeping this," he said tucking it under his arm, nonchalantly.

"That's alright, Erik," Annie laughed, "If anyone notices it missing, I'll just blame the ghost."

Erik snickered and squeezed her hand as they made their way off the stage. When they passed the front row, Erik quickly picked up the bouquet of roses he had bought for her. Taking one, he tucked it behind her ear, as he had so many times before. He placed the rest of the bunch in her arms, he told her, "These are for you, my lovely Prima Ballerina, my beautiful wild rose." And taking her hand once again in his, Erik led Annie home.

 **AN: Aww… they are so in love—even though Annie has made it so that Erik has not been able to say the words. But there were a lot of emotions in this chapter. Could it be that Annie's heart is finally shifting? Is she ready to admit that Erik is not only her lover, but her love as well?**


	95. Chapter 95

CH 95:

Erik repositioned the roses that now sat in the center of the table, and lit the two ivory tapers that flanked the tall crystal vase on either side. Straightening the napkins lying next to each plate, he gave a little sigh. Satisfied that all was as it should be, Erik stole a quick glance at his pocket watch. Annie and Meg would be home soon.

Anticipation bubbling in his chest, he reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out the ring that Yasmin had given him before he left Persia.

 _Take this,_ his dear young friend had said, _and give it to your Annie—and make her yours forever._

"That's exactly what I plan to do, Yasmin," Erik murmured softly as he watched the topaz gleam in the candlelight. "Tonight will be the night."

Erik had had half a mind to give Annie the ring last night, when they'd returned from their birthday celebration on the stage, but she had leaned against his chest, letting her head fall back to kiss him sweetly as they'd sailed across the lake. He barely took the time necessary to tie the little boat to the doc before lifting his beloved out of the vessel and carrying her to their bed to continue the festivities. Afterward, they'd spent what seemed like hours just gazing into one another's eyes, Annie stroking his cheek, Erik's fingers tangled in her hair, before a peaceful sleep finally claimed them.

It was in that time that Erik's mind had been made up. Months had passed. Annie had fulfilled her obligation of grieving for her husband—at least publicly. It might still be a bit soon, but most would consider it socially acceptable for her to marry again. And even if not, Erik hardly cared.

Annie had long been his heart—the very center of his soul. True, since Giles's death, they had not yet spoken words that declared their love to one another, but words hardly mattered. Erik could feel her love when she touched him so tenderly—he could see it plainly in her eyes. Erik knew her love for him was still there—still true. And as far as his love for her? Well, he was ready to shout it from the rooftops, telling all who cared to hear—and even those who didn't—how much he adored her. He was going to give her the ring this night—and make her his wife as soon as they could arrange it—like he should have done years ago. And with the addition of Little Giry, at long last, Erik, the "motherless" child, would have a family.

The quick snick of the secret apparatus unlocking the alley door, made Erik quickly shove the ring back into his pocket. Tonight he would make his dreams come true—but he had to at least wait for the perfect moment. Right now, all he wanted to do was take Annie into his arms after a long day of separation—giving Little Giry a squeeze too, for though he had delighted in Annie's birthday surprise, he could not deny that he had sorely missed Meg's joyful presence.

Rushing to the door to greet his beloved, he was surprised to see her entering alone. Her head was down, and she was slowly unwrapping a stole that had been fastened around her shoulders for warmth.

"Annie," he asked, his eyes narrowing in confusion, "where's Little Giry?" When Annie simply looked up at him, her skin pale white, her eyelids heavy, Erik's eyes widened in alarm. Taking her by the upper arms, he demanded, "Annie, are you alright?"

"Erik," Annie answered with a sigh, "I'm fine. Just feeling a bit under the weather, I'm afraid." When Erik loosed his hold, she removed her stole and tossed it carelessly on the table in the entryway before adding, "And Meg is with Giselle. When I went to collect her, Giselle told me I was in no condition to be caring for a toddler—and that she would keep Meg another night so that I could go home and rest." Shaking her head, she added, "For such a slip of a girl, she can be very strict when she wants to be."

"To her credit," Erik remarked, taking her arm and guiding her to the sitting room.

"Oh Erik," Annie heaved another tired sigh, "I might have known you'd agree with her."

"I'd agree with anyone who had your best interests at heart," Erik said, putting his arm around her shoulders. "And while I do miss Little Giry," he leaned over to place a kiss on the top of her head, "I am happy to be able to lavish all my attentions on taking care of you. As you can see," he added, waving an arm in the direction of the dining table, "I have already prepared a scrumptious feast. It should go a long way in helping you regain your strength."

"Erik," Annie smiled sadly as she gazed at the beautiful spread he had arranged, "thank you for going to such efforts. I'm sure everything is quite wonderful. But honestly, the way I'm feeling right now, I don't think I could eat a thing."

Erik could not keep a twinge of regret from squeezing his heart, but mostly he was filled with concern. After all, the food was just that. It could be saved for later—or replaced entirely if necessary. Annie's health and comfort were far more important to him than the hours he had spent creating what he'd wanted to be the perfect night.

"I understand, Annie," he said in a honeyed voice. "Whatever you need to help you feel better, I will make sure you have it."

"Oh," Annie sighed a heavy breath. "I think a soak in the tub would go a long way in easing the cramps in my stomach. Perhaps after that I could be more amenable to partaking of your culinary delights," she added with a small sigh, indicating that she appreciated Erik's efforts, despite feeling unwell.

"Of course," Erik said, kissing her lips gently. "Why don't you go change into your dressing gown and I shall ready the bath for you."

"Thank you, Erik," Annie nodded.

"Of course," Erik answered again, giving her a final squeeze before she slipped away to the bedroom.

The tub was just about filled with what Erik hoped was soothingly warm water when Annie returned in her long white robe tied loosely at her waist, her raven waves hanging down her back. Despite the fact that she was feeling ill, she was still a vision of loveliness, and Erik swallowed against the lump in his throat when he gazed upon her.

"Your bath, my lady," he said in a husky voice, unable to take his eyes off of her.

Annie glanced up at Erik, but then quickly dropped her gaze once again as a bashful smile played on her lips. Was that shyness that made her cheeks redden just a bit as she took the hand he offered to guide her toward the old copper tub?

Without a word, Erik unraveled the knot that kept her dressing gown closed and caught his breath as the silky fabric fell to the floor. He warred with himself to keep his desire for her in check—knowing that this bath was for her comfort alone, and not for his pleasure. His need for her was ever present, but he did his best to ignore his growing arousal as he gingerly helped her into the bath.

Annie sighed as she sunk into the relaxing waters, the swirling heat doing much to wash away the struggles of the day.

"This is lovely Erik," she purred softly, her eyes closing as she savored the calming effect of the bathwater.

"Not nearly as lovely as you, my rose," Erik answered dreamily, for in truth, he could not imagine a more beautiful sight than the woman he loved lying naked before him—unless of course, she was walking toward him wearing a wedding dress.

Erik tried to work up the courage to ask the question that had been plaguing his mind. He knew Annie was feeling poorly, but still, he could hardly stand the thought of going another night without replacing her simple band of gold with his fiery topaz ring. A proposal might be just the thing to help her feel better, he thought, as his hand subconsciously reached down to pat his trouser pocket. Feeling the line of the precious trinket that signified his love, he once again grew confident in his decision. Tonight would be the night.

"Erik," Annie murmured, contentedly as she slipped even deeper into the water, "would you be so kind as to help me wash my hair?"

"It would be my pleasure," he responded in warm tones. Erik had long been fascinated by Annie's silken ebony waves. From the first night, all those years ago, when she had fallen asleep in the gypsy tent, he had found her hair to be too great a prize to keep from touching. Even now, after their bodies had been lain bare to one another countless times, he still cherished the scent of those raven curls, their softness as they brushed against his face while she was sleeping.

Kneeling beside the tub, Erik rolled up his sleeves to keep them from getting drenched. Dipping his cupped hands into the tub, he slowly poured soothing warm liquid over Annie's head, repeating his actions until her hair was soaked, and her shoulders and neck glistened with moisture. Annie lifted her head from the back of the tub just enough so that Erik could lift her heavy tresses from behind her back and bring them forward to rest upon her breast. Never taking his eyes from his resting angel, Erik reached for the soap, rubbing it between his hands. When he had formed a sudsy lather, he gently spread it on her hair, slipping his soapy fingers between her curls. Careful not to cause her even the tiniest bit of discomfort, Erik meticulously separated the delicate tendrils, fanning them out on his palm so that they would not snarl as he rinsed them clean.

Annie had opened her eyes to watch him as he worked, and she found her heart clenching at the tenderness with which he cared for her—the near reverence with which his fingers touched her hair. The wave of emotion that washed over her caused tears to prickle at her eyes. "Erik," she murmured, dreamily, "you are so good to me."

Erik looked up to meet her gaze, his glowing golden eyes locking with her dark orbs, dewy with moisture. "That is because," he told her in no uncertain terms, his voice breathy and low, "I love you, Annie."

Annie felt the breath leave her body. Erik had finally said the three words—each one only a single, paltry syllable—from which she had hidden for so long. For months, she had denied their truth, blocking their entrance into the fragile balance of her world. She had used passion to set up a barricade—pleasure to serve as sentry—barring the door against any expressions of the emotions she had suspected Erik was feeling. Love had no place in her faded existence. She was no longer young and free—no longer even a wife. Her husband had died, and that made her a widow—relegated to a world of black, never to allow the simple, tender warmth of a bond such as love to repaint the colors of her life.

But in a moment of weakness, she had let down her guard, allowing the gates around her battered heart to fall open. In that brief time, Erik had loosed the words from which she had been running all along. And now that they had been spoken, as she gazed into his precious eyes forged from the purest gold, she asked herself, _why have I been afraid?_

For of course, she loved him too. It was as essential to her as breathing. She had loved him from the moment she'd laid eyes on him as a child, and she had not been able to stop, even when she'd thought he was dead. She had been punishing herself for far too long—pushing away both his emotions and hers, in some imagined recompense to the man she felt she had wronged—but what was the point? Even that very man—her poor dear husband, Giles—had begged her, with his dying breath, to allow herself to be happy. And Erik did that. Erik made her happy. So why should she continue to deny it?

"Erik," she whispered, barely breathing as she lifted a trembling hand from the water, only to rest it against his precious cheek. "I love you too."

Erik drew in a hitched breath, tears beginning to form in his own eyes. "Annie?" he muttered, frantically searching her face for some evidence that what he had just heard was true.

Her eyes were soft and glistening, and a joy filled smile raised her lips as she suppressed a sob. "Yes, Erik. I love you," she said again, nodding as the tears finally began to spill freely. "I have always loved you."

"Oh…my angel," Erik sighed, not realizing until that moment how much fear and trepidation he still held about her true feelings. "My precious, dearest Annie."

"Yes Erik," Annie responded, pulling him in closer until their foreheads were touching. " _Yours_."

When Erik's lips met hers it was as if the entire world had exploded in brilliant light. Vibrant colors burst over the dark recesses of his mind, the murky shadows of his heart, until his entire being was alive and humming with the joy of knowing that Annie loved him. She was his—she had said so herself. He knew it without a doubt in his heart—and as soon as he placed the ring on her finger, all of Paris would know it as well.

Erik's hand inched slowly toward his pocket. He was intent on presenting Annie with his ring immediately upon the separation of their lips. If she felt up to it, he would even carry her off to the preacher that very night, and speak the vows that would bind them together for a lifetime. He had waited far too long to make this cherished woman his wife. He was all out of patience. But before his fingers could close around the topaz treasure, Annie tore her lips away from his, yelping a shriek of pain.

"Annie?" Erik called, his eyes shooting open to see a grimace of agony etched across her face. "Annie!" he cried again in alarm, "what's wrong?"

Annie struggled to respond, opening her mouth, but not able to make any sound. Finally, she managed to force a strangled, "Erik…" before her eyes fluttered shut again and her head fell slackly against his arm.

"Annie!" Erik barked her name, tapping her face lightly to try and get her attention. "Annie open your eyes! _Look_ at me!" But Annie made no response, and Erik reached into the tub to gather her into his arms, so that he could carry her to the bed.

That was when he saw it.

Blood. _Annie's_ blood—reddening the water, filling the tub—surrounding his angel in scarlet regret.

"No," he whispered as the angry color continued to swirl, and undulate, staining the once cleansing liquid a deep dark crimson. "No!" he screamed as he quickly lifted her limp body out of the tub, red tinted water spraying everywhere. Holding her tightly against his chest, Erik could feel that her heart was still beating, but her limbs hung feebly down from her sides, her head lolling against his chest.

A hospital. Erik had to get Annie to the hospital. Or at the very least, to see a doctor. There was no time to waste.

Grabbing one of the long towels that hung by the tub, Erik wrapped it around her nakedness, not wanting to waste the time it would take to dress her fully. But Annie's bleeding hadn't stopped, and for a moment, time seemed to cease as Erik watched the white fabric grow stained with red. It had been thus in Persia, when the Shah's life's blood had spread a shocking scarlet ribbon against his pristine white robes. Then it had been a fittingly violent end to a hideously despicable creature—the flourished signature of death. But Erik could not even contemplate that possibility now.

He hurried for the alley exit, folding his heavy winter cloak around Annie to further shield her from the cold. The night was dark, and the wind was brisk against his drenched shirt, but as luck would have it, a coach for hire had just dropped off a customer at a nearby eatery. Before the harried driver could climb back into the driver's seat, Erik ran up to him and grabbed his arm.

"I will pay you anything you want," he swore to the startled man, his eyes wild with worry. "Name your price, sir, and you shall have it. Just please, get us to a doctor as fast as you can!" With eyes crazed and desperate, he made his final plea, "It is an emergency."

Without a word, the cowed man nodded, and opened the carriage door. Scurrying inside, careful not to jostle his precious cargo, Erik clutched Annie tightly in his arms. A moment after the door was closed, the driver had climbed back into his seat and Erik felt the carriage begin to make way.

"Please don't leave me, Annie," Erik begged, as he placed a nervous kiss against the top of her head, the image of red staining white playing again in his mind. Cradling her tenderly against his heart, his tears flowed freely as he whispered, "I need you."

 **AN: Oh no! And just when they were doing so well! Godspeed, coachman! Annie needs help-and Erik needs Annie!**


	96. Chapter 96

CH 96

They had not gone very far when the carriage stopped outside a small building with a medical symbol hanging in the window. Erik was out of the coach almost before the frazzled driver could entirely open the door.

"This isn't the hospital," Erik barked.

"No, s…s…sir," the driver stammered, "but this office was closer, and if the lady is in danger…"

"Here," without even looking at the sputtering man, Erik shoved a handful of bills at him that would easily double the fares he had collected for an entire week. Without another word, Erik carried Annie to the door.

An elderly woman, grey hair tied back into a severe bun, was just turning the sign in the window to "closed" when she saw Erik approach. Erik pleaded with her through the glass to let him in, but meeting his eye and pointing to the prohibitory word, the woman shook her head, indicating that they would not find help here tonight. With Annie's life at stake, however, Erik had no concern for propriety. One swift kick burst the door wide, causing the crone's eyes to shoot open in shock, a look of extreme consternation on her face.

"Sir!" the aged woman cried, aghast, "how dare you?"

"You wouldn't let me in," Erik said plainly.

"We are closed," she said, her expression hard as stone.

"She needs a doctor!" Erik snapped.

"That is not our problem! The doctor's hours are…" the woman began in a condescending voice.

"If she dies," Erik snarled down at the withered woman, his always imposing frame seeming to grow to twice its height, his golden eyes flashing almost amber in his ire, "it will most assuredly be your problem!"

"Madamé Saunier," said a middle aged gentleman, as he entered from a back room. The determined look on his face, despite the exhaustion in his eyes, told Erik this was the man he had come to see. "What is all this racket about?"  
"This…this… _masked_ _thug,_ " the elderly office assistant began, "stormed in here and broke down our door…"

"She needs a doctor," Erik brushed past the old biddy and spoke directly to the distinguished man, looking him resolutely in the eye.

"…I tried to tell him we were closed…but he pushed his way in, like a bandit…"  
"Please sir," Erik entreated, his terror clear in his eyes, "she is bleeding."

The doctor looked at Erik with narrowed, questioning eyes, using careful, methodical fingers to lift the edge of Erik's cloak. When he saw the white towel soaked a bright, angry red, he inhaled a deep breath and nodded, gesturing behind him. "Take her through this door and lay her on the table."

"But, Dr. Ouvrard," the old biddy protested, as Erik moved past the doctor into the sterile examining room, "who will pay for the door?"

"Don't you worry, Madame Saunier," the calm gentleman assured her. "Why don't you go on home and we'll deal with this mess," he gestured toward the door frame, "in the morning."

Erik laid Annie gently on the treatment table, making certain to drape his cloak over her once again to keep her warm. He was tenderly brushing some stray strands of hair away from her eyes when the doctor returned.

"Interesting way for her to be dressed," the man commented soberly, raising a suspicious eyebrow as he once again lifted Erik's cloak, folding it up so that it lay entirely on her chest.

"She was in the bath, sir," Erik stated the information, his voice shaky. "She had not been feeling well, so I was helping her, and…"

"Not feeling well?" the doctor stopped Erik short. "How?"

"She was exhausted and she had no appetite. She was complaining of stomach cramps. We thought a bath might help, but then she…" Erik swallowed hard and shut his eyes as the horrible image of the water turning to red played again in his mind, "began to bleed. She…she passed out, sir, and I…I didn't want to waste the time it would take to dress her."

"Good thinking," the doctor nodded, his face grim as he examined his patient. "She's hemorrhaging. It was very important to be timely in stopping the bleeding."

Erik looked down at Annie's face, blanched white with the loss of so much blood. _Oh Annie, what has happened?_

"I cannot lose her, doctor," Erik moaned, anguish etched upon his face. "You must save her. I _need_ her."

"You will not lose her," the doctor assured him, looking him in the eye. "I can help her. I am afraid, however," he added shaking his head, as he reached for a pair of gloves, "that there is no hope for the baby."

Erik stared at the doctor in shock. Did he say _baby_?

"Doctor, there…" Erik stammered, shaking his head, "there must be some mistake. She…she is not with child."

"It is true that she is no longer with child, Monsieur…" the doctor's voice trailed off, waiting for Erik to supply a last name.

Not knowing what else to say, he gave the surname Annie had long ago bestowed upon him, "Laramie."

"Monsieur Laramie, your wife is suffering a miscarriage…" was the doctor's plain reply.

 _Miscarriage?_ Erik repeated soundlessly. The doctor was still talking, but Erik wasn't hearing a word. This was not happening. This _could_ not be happening. Of all the horrors and the trials he had undergone, this…this one was too great.

"…still in its early stages," the doctor was saying as Erik's mind slowly came back into focus. "It might have been too early for you to tell…"

"But doctor," Erik said, his own voice sounding foreign in his ears, as if spoken by someone far away, in a world that was not crumbling down around him. "Her womanly cycle had not yet returned from the birth of her last child."

"I understand," the doctor nodded, "but the womb becomes fertile just before it is apparent that the cycle has resumed. You and your wife have engaged in relations, have you not?"  
Erik's heart pounded wildly in his chest. He did this to her. He had caused this to happen, with his uncontrollable lust and his unquenchable urges. And he had done so without even the benefit of making her his wife! _That was going to change,_ he thought. _I was going to marry her—tonight, if she would have agreed._

 _But you didn't marry her,_ a serpent's voice that he knew belonged to his own subconscious hissed in his ear. _Just like you never married her years ago. And once again, she has been made to suffer._

"Yes, doctor," he finally choked, grateful for once, that Giles's simple gold band still circled Annie's finger, so that her reputation would not be as damaged as her body obviously was, "we have… been intimate."

"Then it is perfectly possible that she would have conceived before ever experiencing her courses again."

"I see," Erik said, placing his hands on the table to either side of Annie's head, so that he might remain standing and not collapse to the floor under the weight of this unexpected blow. _I'm sorry, Annie. I'm so sorry._

"Monsieur," the doctor spoke again, and Erik looked in his direction to see that he had pulled on the gloves, and had, at some point, tied on a surgical mask. "What is your wife's name?"

"Her name," Erik said, gazing down with love at the beautiful woman lying on the table before him, so fragile now—so wounded. Because of him. "is Annie."

"I am going to treat Annie now, Monsieur Laramie," the doctor informed him with much compassion in his eyes. "You may go and wait in the sitting area."

"I will not leave her!" Erik insisted, his jaw clenched, a stony resolve blazing in his golden eyes. "I will _never_ leave her."

Dr. Ouvrard sighed, knowing this was a battle he had no time to fight. "Very well, Monsieur Laramie," he relented. "But I'd advise you not to look. And you must be certain to remain where you are and stay out of the way. I _must_ stop your wife's bleeding."

"I understand, doctor," Erik nodded, finally falling to his knees, to rest his forehead against Annie's cold cheek. For the first time in his life, he prayed—begging the unseen God that his love and devotion to her would someday be able to warm her. "I'm sorry, Annie," he whispered into her ear as the doctor began his work, placing a whisper soft kiss along her jawline. "I'm so sorry."

* * *

Annie was in a fog, soft misty lights swirling gently around her consciousness, coaxing her to wake, beseeching her to open her eyes. But her lids were heavy and the world around her seemed so cold. Annie preferred to drift on this airy cloud, blissfully removed from the reality that would not cease in trying to call her back. Something had happened, she knew—but it was something bad. And if she never opened her eyes, she would never have to know.

"Monsieur Laramie," she heard a rich, kind voice say from some distant land. "I have given her something for pain, but she should awaken shortly. It will take her a few days to completely heal, but when you are both ready, there is no harm in trying again."

There came no reply, only the soft closing of a door. How strange, she thought, to hear such a thing in a dream. And why would someone be using her father's name…

A moment later, she felt a gentle weight on her stomach, accompanied by a soft, quiet weeping. The plaintive cries were so heart-wrenching, so mournful, it was as if the earth's entire store of sorrow had gathered there in that one moment to populate every falling tear. It was this dolorous anguish that finally caused her to abandon her cloud and open her eyes, to see if she could somehow comfort this precious broken heart.

She looked down the length of her body to see that she was covered in a white sheet, and there, at her side, was her beloved Erik, his head resting on her abdomen. He was the source of the weeping.

"Erik?" she asked, her voice scratchy in her ears, her throat burning as if a hot poker had been forced inside.

Erik looked up at her with red rimmed eyes that were filled with tears, a sad smile gracing his lips. "Oh, my Annie," he said, relief coloring his tone, as he sat up and gently cupped her face in his hands, "you're awake."

Giving a little nod, then thinking better of it, as a sharp pain seared through her temple, she asked, "What happened?

A shadow passed across Erik's eyes and the smile fell from his lips. Taking in a deep breath, he began, "You weren't feeling well, Annie, so I drew you a bath."

"Yes," she said, "that I remember."

"While you were in the tub," Erik continued, seeming as if he had to force out every word, "you began to bleed. Heavily. You lost consciousness."

Annie made no reply, but only stared at Erik in disbelief.

"I hailed a cab and brought you here—to the office of Dr. Ouvrard—and he…" Erik paused, swallowing hard, "stopped the bleeding. He says you are going to be all right."

"Then why were you crying?" she asked, her blood suddenly running cold, knowing that there was something Erik had not shared with her.

Erik closed his eyes and appeared to be struggling against tears. After a moment, he lifted his lids and the sorrow Annie had heard in his voice was now evident in his eyes. "Annie," he began in a voice that was barely above a whisper, "there was a baby."

Annie stared at Erik shaking her head back and forth. What did he mean, a baby? Was she…was she _pregnant_? No, how could she be pregnant? She'd had no bouts of nausea, no faintness, none of the strange cravings she'd had with Meg. Her clothes fit the same, she had not even resumed her cycle—and Giles had been gone too long…. If there was a baby, it must be…

 _There_ was _a baby._

The true significance of Erik's words closed in on her and suddenly, she couldn't breathe.

" _Was_ , Erik?" Annie asked, the thrumming in her head making it almost impossible to hear his response.

But the tears that now streamed down his face as he nodded his quiet, "Was," rang through the fog that was closing in upon her once more. And as her own vision clouded over with tears, she was only dimly aware of his arms gathering her close to him, and heavy sobs that filled a world so very far away.

 **AN: :( Poor Erik and Annie**


	97. Chapter 97

**AN: This is a very pivotal chapter, but I warn you-it's rough!**

CH 97

Dr. Ouvrard had been inspecting the doorframe when Erik helped Annie out of the examining room. She was dressed in a simple dressing gown the good physician had left, and Erik's cloak was once again wrapped around her shoulders. He told her it was to protect her from the cold—but Annie didn't _feel_ cold. Annie _felt_ nothing. Still she leaned against his strong shoulder and did what he asked. She didn't have the strength to argue.

Erik handed the doctor some money—saying something about giving him extra to cover the damage to the doorframe. The doctor cautioned Erik to "keep her close," causing Erik to tighten his hold. His fingers squeezed a bit too tightly into her flesh, but Annie didn't tell him. Annie didn't say a word at all.

Erik found a carriage for hire just waiting outside in the night air, the driver saying something about Erik's generosity making it unnecessary for him to accept any more fares that day. He had decided to wait and see if Erik would need a ride home. They climbed aboard the ready coach, and Annie leaned her head against the window—staring blankly into the dark—and as they rode through the streets of Paris, she never saw a thing.

They entered the opera house through the alley door, Annie allowing Erik to lead her wherever he wanted her to go. He directed her straight to bed, of course, where he made her lay down—without ever changing her out of the doctor's simple gown. She could have told him that the memory of that place was stifling—petrifying. She could have told him that she wanted to burn the garment—to scrub and purge every horrifying, appalling mark of that wicked place off of her body. But she didn't tell him anything—she only lay down and never breathed a word.

"You need to rest, my angel," Erik whispered, as he kissed first her cheek, and then her eyelids, bidding her to sleep. Annie wasn't tired, but she did not protest, only laying there with her eyes closed, never making a sound.

Erik stayed with her a while, stroking her hair, humming her a lullaby, but still she stared at the endless darkness that lay behind her eyes. After a time, he rose, and Annie heard him quietly walk away. She did not turn to look where he was going—only continued to stare into the black.

She heard sounds coming from the bathroom—running water, the scratch of a scrub brush—and sobbing—loud, gut wrenching cries, that should have sent her running to his side to pull him into her arms. But she did not go—she didn't move—only let the cooling darkness surround her.

Eventually, he returned to the room. He tried to be so quiet—tried hard not to disturb her. But it didn't matter anyway—it wasn't as if she were asleep. She felt him crawl into bed behind her, pressing his long, fully clothed body tightly against her back, as he draped his arm around her waist and held her close. His soft cries were barely audible—but she heard them—just as she could tell that he was shaking, the moisture of what she assumed were his tears dampening the tiny hairs at the back of her neck.

She could have turned to comfort him. She could have wrapped herself around him, cradling his head in her arms, as she whispered words of love to stem the flow of tears. But instead she lay still, only staring—always staring—at the inky, black darkness that resided behind her eyes. And she never said—she never felt—a thing.

* * *

Erik woke early the next morning, his body allowing him no rest, even after the exhausting events of the previous night. But no matter, he thought, looking over to the angel that lay beside him in his bed—being up early gave him more time to care for Annie. Placing a gentle kiss on the back of her head, Erik slowly rose from the bed.

She had lost so much blood, he thought, as he cracked two eggs into a pan, and lit the fire on the stove. She was still so weak. She would need to eat to regain her strength—and she would definitely _need_ to be strong, Erik knew, to recover from this horrible loss. He had seen how it had cut her to the quick—how, even though she'd had no idea about the existence of a baby, the loss had still broken her heart.

Her loss, Erik paused in his actions a moment, having to place a hand on the stove to steady himself. His loss too... A head full of dark, springy curls, framing a laughing face with two golden, shining eyes flashed before him. But the laughter only lasted for a moment, because soon those two perfect, rosebud lips began to frown, as the color leached away while the image faded from sight. His heart ached as he lost the vision, and he felt tears stinging at the corner of his eyes.

 _His loss too._

But his feelings were irrelevant now, he reminded himself, coming back to the present as he slid the cooked eggs onto a plate next to a freshly cut slice of cheese. Annie needed him now. The most important thing was to get her well.

Erik was surprised to see Annie awake when he carried the tray into the bedroom. His momentary joy at seeing her sitting up in bed, her eyes open, however, was replaced with sadness when he took note of how pale she looked, and how dark the circles were under her eyes. Her hair was a tangled mess and she looked just so… _fragile_. As if even the slightest bit of pressure could cause her to break. He would have to be the strong one, he reminded himself as he placed the tray down on the bedside table.

"Good morning, Annie," he said, forcing a smile to his face, as he walked over to the bed, and leaned in to kiss her cheek.

But before Erik's lips could meet her skin, Annie turned away.

Feeling apprehension coil around his heart, Erik tried to keep his voice calm. "How are you feeling this morning, my love?"

Shaking her head, wordlessly, her only response was to climb out of bed and reach for the clothes she had discarded the night before.

"Annie," Erik asked, confused, "what are you doing?"

"I'm going home, Erik," she informed him, not looking in his direction, while stepping into her dress, tossing the horrific medical gown onto the floor.

"But you _are_ home," he reminded her, looking at her with narrowed eyes as he walked slowly over to her side of the bed.

"No, Erik," she countered, fastening the buttons on her bodice, "I am not.

"Annie," he sighed, nerves beginning to squeeze his lungs as he reached for her arm, "…you're in no state to go anywhere."

"No!" she cried, loudly, pulling her arm away from and flinching back a few paces. "Don't touch me!"

Erik looked with shock at the woman before him, his mouth unable to form words as he recalled the last time she recoiled from his touch in fear. Then she had been dreaming, but now, they were in the midst of a living nightmare, and Erik had no idea what to do.

"I cannot be here," she told him, her breath coming in frantic puffs. "I have to go….

"Why?" Erik asked, at a loss.

" _Why_ , Erik?" Annie snapped, "Do you really have to ask? This is not right!" she declared, her voice thick with emotion. "It has _never_ been right! _We_ have never been right…."

"Annie," Erik said forcing himself to be calm while his blood ran cold. "What do you mean?"

"Isn't it obvious, Erik?" she asked, beginning to pace across the floor. "We are twisted. From the very beginning we have had to lie, cheat and murder to be together. Our bond is _drenched_ in blood and falsehoods. It is a distortion of that which should be pure and good."

"How can you say that, Annie?" Erik asked her softly in his heartbreak. "Our love," he added, his voice catching in agony, "is the only true…unblemished thing I have ever known in my life…"

"Unblemished, Erik?" Annie asked, incredulously. "Are you blind? _Our love_ caused me to slit a man's throat to win your freedom! _Our love_ made you snap my stepfather's neck so that we could steal away into the night! Is _that_ pure? Is _that_ unblemished?

"Annie, please stop," he begged her, still working to keep his voice calm and even.

"How can you call this… _thing_ …between us pure and true, when you don't even _know_ me?" Annie demanded, throwing her hands up in exasperation.

Erik stared at her dumbfounded by her accusation. "Don't _know_ you, Annie? I _love_ you!"

"You LEFT me!" she screamed, in a rage, flipping over the tray that had held the breakfast Erik had so carefully prepared, sending food and dishes everywhere. "You said it was all for me…you said it was to give me the life I deserved—the life I _needed_. But I needed _you_ , Erik! And you were gone!" she spat, tears springing to her eyes. "You never listened to me—or cared about my desires! You only ever paid mind to what _you_ selfishly decided I needed! And then you left me—all alone—so that you could give me what I never asked for, depriving me of all I ever truly wanted."

"Annie, I'm sorry," Erik sputtered, not really knowing what to say, but willing to say anything to make it better, "Annie, please…"

"But while you were gone, Erik, I _found_ a man! A _good_ man—who _did_ love me. Who asked me about _my_ wants," she said, pressing her hand to her chest. "Who cared about _my_ needs. He _loved me_ for who I _was_ —not who he _dreamed_ me to be."

"Annie," Erik interjected, "You know I love you for who you are too…"

"But I hurt him," she railed, her facing growing red with exertion. "Over and over again, I hurt him. I could never love him the way he deserved because of you! Because _your ghost_ was always between us—haunting my mind, my heart, my soul. I could never grasp true love, because I was too busy clinging, with all my might, to the twisted image of what YOU taught me love should be. I could never let you go, Erik—even when I knew I should have."

Pausing briefly in her tirade, Annie turned away, burying her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking with her sobs.

Erik did not know where any of this was coming from, but he slowly walked over to stand behind her, placing his hands gently on her shoulders "Annie," he said softly, pushing down the wounds her words had caused, "you're not well. You've suffered a tragic loss…"

Spinning around so swiftly that she threw Erik momentarily off balance, Annie spat, "I've suffered many. All because of YOU!" Pounding her hands against his chest, she continued her rant, "You never should have come back! Or when you did, you should have gone once you saw that I was a married woman! Instead you stayed, drawing me to you again and again, knowing that I belonged to another man. Your manipulations, and your games…. I should have told Giles everything. I should have revealed to my _husband_ that you were back and that you were behind all of the nonsense that took place in Box 5. But I didn't! I covered things up for you—to keep you safe. To keep… you close," her voice faltered just a bit, and she began to sway a little, remembering how desperately she'd begged him not to go. But the crushing madness she felt swirling in her mind came back to her in a heartbeat, leaving no room for fairness. "My _husband_ —and the father of my _child_ —is dead! Because of YOU..." Annie felt herself swooning again, and put her hand on the bedside table to steady herself. "Because of _ME_ …" she whimpered.

"Annie…" Erik implored her in a gentle voice that belied the terror he was feeling in his heart, "…please…stop this. You are not well…"

But Annie couldn't hear him. "And after died," she continued in a dark, thick voice, adding to her damning self-accusations, "I wasted no time in becoming your whore…"

"Annie, no!" Erik growled, angry now that she would demean their love to such a degree. "You know it wasn't like that. It was never like that!"

"Night after night, I gave you my body…" she sobbed.

"Please, Annie," he begged, "stop it…."

"I gave you my soul…

"Annie…. please…,"

"I gave you _everything_ that should have belonged to Giles."

"Because you love me, Annie," Erik dropped to his knees, begging her to see reason. "And I love you. We can't help how we feel. How we've _always_ felt—since we were children."

Annie glared at him with venom in her eyes, " _His_ child calls _you_ papa."

Erik did not know what to say. He had cherished that word when it came from Meg's perfect lips—but he was quick to correct her, knowing that he could not claim what would never rightfully belong to him. Staring sorrowfully at her, his eyes filled with tears. "Annie, I'm sorry…I'm sorry."

"Our _love_ , as you call it, is twisted…it's unnatural…it's monstrous!" she spat, her vicious words lodging themselves deep in Erik's heart, twisting and shredding until there was nothing left. "Nothing good—nothing pure—can come of it!" Annie's voice trailed off and her head swam as she looked down at her hands. "Just blood…" she said, as she saw the crimson liquid flowing out of the master's neck, the trickle of red dripping from her stepfather's lips. "Nothing but blood…" she murmured, seeing the water run red, extinguishing a pure and innocent life that had barely even begun. _It wasn't good. It would never be good again._

Staggering a bit, Annie took a deep breath, and began to walk toward the alley door.

"Please Annie!" Erik crawled after her, reaching for her skirt, to stop her. "I beg of you," he said in a weak, battered voice. "Do not go. You're all I have. I love you, Annie. I _need_ you."

Looking at him with steely resolve, Annie shook her head. "Goodbye, Erik."

"Annie, please!" he shouted now, feeling his every joy, his every happiness slipping irrevocably away. "You told me you loved me!"

Giving him one final, icy look, Annie worked the mechanism and walked out the door.  
"Noooo!" Erik bellowed, collapsing to the floor in sobs when finally, she was gone. "I love you, Annie! I love you!" But even then, he knew it didn't matter—for _his_ love was twisted—an abomination— _monstrous_. Annie had looked right at him and said it herself. Finally, after all these years, she could see.

 **AN: OK,** ** _please_** **don't hate me. We all know Annie is not in her right mind-she hasn't been in a LONG time.**


	98. Chapter 98

CH 98

The outside air invigorated Annie enough that she was able to get back to the residents' entrance rather easily, but once inside the crowded building, she again felt herself begin to sway. Going straight to the rehearsal room, where her dancers were already beginning to arrive for their morning warmups, she steadied herself against the doorjamb as she informed them that she would not be joining them today, due to illness. They were to run through their routines on their own, and surely she would be back with them tomorrow. Pulling one of the more senior dancers aside, she charged her with the task of getting word to Giselle that she would not be able to pick up Meg, because she was still feeling ill. Then, her immediate responsibilities dispatched, Annie made her way to the apartment, where she hoped she would be able to escape the thrumming in her head, the dagger that pierced her heart.

The rooms were sparsely furnished, with very few of the accoutrements that signified a home. Annie had never needed to keep much there, since she had never truly lived in the space. There was a bed, however, and she staggered over to it immediately upon shutting the door. Her strength finally giving out, she sank down upon the firm mattress and closed her eyes. Fleetingly, it crossed her mind that the room was cold— _so_ cold. She hardly had time to dwell on it, however, before her weakened body slipped into a deep state of slumber.

Sleep kept Annie locked in its protective embrace, throughout the day and most of the night, its long dark fingers closing around her to prevent even dreams from disturbing her body's desperate need for healing. For those crucial, restorative hours, her room became akin to the grave, inky blackness blessedly erasing any thoughts from her mind—any emotions from her heart—leaving her a blank slate.

It was nearly the following morning when the vision arrived. She was walking along the beach, a strong hand holding hers, ocean breezes gently lifting her curls as they wafted through her hair. The warmth of the sun was beating down on her, kissing her skin, the golden rays marking her cheeks and the tip of her nose with a rosy glow. Peace and contentment filled her heart, as she gazed upon a little boy, sitting near the shoreline a short distance away. He was busy building an castle in the sand, but of course, it was no _simple_ castle. No, this was a grand edifice, complete with turrets and hidden passageways, as befitted the boy who built it.

His raven hair was a tangle of wild curls that brushed past the collar of his loose white shirt. His skin was pale—the color of fine porcelain—but the ruddy color on his cheeks, revealed that he was a healthy and strong child—one who would do great things some day.

Her heart swelling with love and pride, she called to him—though she did not know the name she used. Pausing in his play, he looked up at her and golden eyes glinted in the sunlight. A sweet voice answered, "Mama! Papa!" and the hand that was holding hers, gave her a quick, affectionate squeeze.

Turning to look at her child's father, she was momentarily confused when it was not her husband at her side, but Erik, the tall, dark angel she had loved her entire life. He was not looking at her, though. His gaze was fixed on the boy before them, and his eyes were full of adoration.

At the loud crash of a wave, Annie turned back to see that the child's castle had been destroyed by the ocean. His still smiling face, just like his magnificent creation, began to crumble, and fade away, until he was little more than ash blowing in the ocean breeze.

Terror seized Annie's heart. Reaching out to the boy, she tried to close the distance between them before he was completely gone from her—but she could not get to him before it was too late. He had vanished before her very eyes—leaving her almost as if he had never been there in the first place. Desperate, she turned to Erik for help—but he was also fading—only his sorrow filled eyes and a plaintive whisper of _"I'm sorry, Annie,"_ remaining before he too slipped away, leaving Annie, once again, alone.

"Erik!" she cried, jolting up in her bed, momentarily disoriented that she would be sleeping alone. He was supposed to be there—beside her—holding her through the night. It had been thus since they were children. Where would he be at this hour, if he were not with her in their bed?

But then she noticed the window across from where she had been laying, soft light beginning to glow behind the drapery as dawn slowly won its battle over darkness. The bed she was sleeping in was cold and hard, not the same handcrafted wonder that Erik had put together. She was the one who wasn't where she was supposed to be, she realized. She wasn't at home—she was in the opera house apartment, and _not_ in the bed she shared with the man she loved.

"Erik…" she called again, as she got out of bed, hoping that he was somehow nearby, and could explain to her why they had spent the night in this cold place rather than in their cozy underground home. Dizziness hit her like a brick as soon as she stood to her full height, and she was barely able to stem the wave of nausea that washed over her. Suddenly, the reason for her weakness came back to her, and Annie folded her arms around her abdomen as she fell to her knees, releasing a great cry.

"My baby!" The anguish stole her breath as she remembered the angelic little boy who had smiled so sweetly at her in her dream. "Oh Erik," she sobbed again, " _our_ baby."

It had been so long since she had first dreamed of carrying Erik's babe within her, of bringing forth a child that had been created out of the beautiful, enduring intimacy she had shared with her oldest friend, her dearest love. For a time, she had been so certain that that day would never come. But it _had_ happened—Erik's seed had taken root within her womb and had begun to flourish and grow—only to be cruelly torn from her before she'd even known it was there. They would never have the chance to hold their child—never have the chance to kiss his impossibly soft cheek. Their baby—their exquisite dark angel—had died without ever knowing how much his mother and father would love him—if only they had known.

"I am so sorry, darling," she whispered to the child she had always dreamed of. "I'm so sorry."

Annie collapsed upon herself in wretched sobs, yearning desperately for Erik's strong arms to close around her—knowing that only thing that would get her through this horrible, unthinkable loss was his strength, his love.

 _Our love, as you call it, is twisted…it's unnatural…it's monstrous!_

"Oh no," she murmured, trembling as her cruel, unthinking words came flooding back to her.

 _It has never been right! We have never been right…._

"Oh, Erik!" she sobbed as she quickly scrambled to her feet, paying no attention to the unsteadiness that still lingered. "I have to get to you," she muttered under her breath, remembering, with great clarity, the devastation in his eyes as he begged her not to go.

 _Annie, please!_ he had begged so pathetically as she willfully shattered his heart. _You told me you loved me!_

"I do, Erik," Annie whispered, storming out of her apartment, her cloak trailing behind her, lantern in her hand to light her way as she ran as fast as her weakened legs would carry her back to the alleyway, the pain in her abdomen no match for the agony in her heart. "I love you so much. I'm so sorry, my poor Angel."

It killed Annie to think of Erik, so lost and so broken by her vile and untrue words. She had to tell him that she hadn't meant any of it—that it was merely her grief—for their baby, for Giles and for the simple life she yearned to share with him—that had loosed those devastating syllables, that hateful venomous speech.

As she fumbled with the mechanism on the entrance to their underground home, she cursed herself for her stupidity. For so long, she had suppressed her feelings—not allowing herself to grieve, not allowing herself to love. She forced herself to become merely a shell of her former self, choosing numbness over emotions. She had been paralyzed by fear—fear of pain, fear of loss—and had created within herself a tiny chamber for her heart. If she kept the offending organ locked tightly away, she would never have to love—never have to hurt.

But, oh, how she had hurt Erik. That much had been so evident in his eyes. Eyes that she adored—eyes that she cherished. She had to see him now—to look in those eyes and explain to him what a mistake she'd made. She prayed that someday those same eyes would look upon her once again alive with love, instead of broken with agony and despair.

"My poor, dear Erik."

Finally, she felt the door to the underground chamber open, giving way under her frantic ministrations. "Erik," she called, moving into the outer room where she had so recently stomped upon his heart, but he made no answer. He must still be sleeping, she thought, as she made her way to their bedroom. But Annie found that the bed was empty, the mess from the tray she had overturned still laying on the floor, completely untouched.

"Erik," she whispered, a single tear falling from her eye, as a terrifying conclusion began to play at the edges of her mind.

Annie wandered through the niches and alcoves of their secret home, still holding on to the idea that she might yet find him poring over some riveting book, or tinkering lovingly on his boat. Everything was as it had been the night before—even the dishes from the dinner they had never eaten were sitting, untouched on the table—the roses still fragrant, but the candles burned out. Still, Erik was nowhere to be found, and with every footstep, each unanswered call, her hopes began to fade.

As she approached the misty, murky waters of the lake, something on the very edge of the shoreline glinted in the glow of her lantern. Kneeling down, she held her lamp immediately above the glittering object and saw that it was a ring. Setting down her lantern, she lifted the ring into her unsteady fingers, drawing in a hitched breath as she saw the luminous topaz which was the very same gold as Erik's eyes. The diamonds that surrounded it were luxurious and dark, the perfect symbol of the man she so deeply loved, the soul she had so thoughtlessly shattered.

 _I have no ring to offer you, Annie,_ she recalled the words he had spoken when he'd asked her to marry him all those years ago, _no trinket with which to plight my troth. But still, I ask you now to make me the happiest man ever to live, by agreeing to be my wife._

Had this been his plan when he'd whispered in her ear so sweetly that he loved her? Had this been the ring that was missing the night she'd first become his fiancée? Had Erik been wishing to propose to her again, sealing his promise with this band of gold, this stone so full of fire and passion?

She had been so happy the night he had first asked for her hand. She had answered him with a resounding yes, her heart so full of love and joy that she was sure it would burst. There had been no ring—no physical symbol of his promise—but it had not mattered. Erik had been in her arms, and that had been enough. _That_ had been _everything_.

Now, as she held onto this exquisite token, this tangible expression of his love and fidelity, her arms were empty. She had the symbol of his promise—but Erik was gone.

Cupping the ring with both hands and pressing it tightly against her heart, Annie closed her eyes as tears streamed down her face. "What have I done, Erik?" she sobbed, knowing that once again, her love was lost. "My dearest love, what have I done?"

 **AN: Here ends Book 2 of Prelude. Book 3 up next!**


	99. Chapter 99

CH 99

The dark figure pulled his hood down to more fully cover his face, despite the stifling heat of the late day sun. More than a decade had passed since he'd last looked upon the grand edifice before him. Time had ebbed and time had flowed, years weaving themselves relentlessly into the tapestry of his existence. Their muted hues marked the twists and turns he had taken as he'd drifted through city after city, never thinking that he would see this place again. He had studied architectural masterpieces in Italy, the glorious sounds of the most exquisite music teasing at his ears while he worked. He had gilded royal palaces in Russia, and even carried the dust of the new world of America on his tattered boots. But never had he expected the gnarled path he traveled would lead him back to this place that was once a cruel prison—this place where he had lost his soul. He had done everything he could to escape the past…but still the memories haunted him. He was not free…he could never be free…of this place. _Or_ of her…

Taking a step forward he passed through the city walls, and could not deny that things had certainly changed. Though the temperature was still oppressive, the air around him seemed lighter, as if the atmosphere of fear had finally lifted. Music wafted through the marketplace, the chink of gold coins changing hands marking a steady beat as merchants conducted business with smiles on their faces—no longer casting furtive glances over their shoulders to see if someone was watching. The residents seemed freer—more relaxed—looking toward the palace with humor in their eyes, instead of the suspicion and terror of old. And the smaller, darkly colored structure that had stood in the center of the square—the one that had struck fear into the hearts of many good men—had been completely torn to the ground.

A royal audience appeared to be taking place, judging by the great number of people gathered on the steps of the palace. Carrying various offerings of goats, chickens, pomegranates and other fruits, the citizens chattered jovially as they waited in the confident hope that the shah would grant them some much desired favor. Keeping to the outskirts of the crowd, the wanderer decided to join their throng, as he too had a favor to ask of the shah.

Long was the line in which he had waited, but when, finally, it was his turn to go before the ruler, he entered the throne room, immediately noticing the difference in décor. Gone were the garish, deceptive mirrors in favor walls painted a rich jewel-toned blue and pierced at regular intervals with windows that allowed natural sunlight to flood the room. The throne was no longer raised on an imposing dais, but was rather anchored on the floor, on the opposite end of the room. And upon it was seated, not the shah, but instead a very beautiful young woman.

Her long black hair was pulled away from her face in a soft braid that twisted to her front and rested in her lap. She was wearing glistening robes of a rich emerald green, trimmed with gold threading that matched the delicate glimmer of the circlet around her head. She was looking down at a book in her lap, making what appeared to be careful notations of the various offerings that had been brought before the crown that day. At length, however, she lifted her head and turned her attention toward him, her luminous green gaze revealing her to be the little princess that he had once known. Yet she had indeed grown up, and was now fit to be viewed as a queen.

"It has been a long day," she uttered, boredom now becoming evident in her tired eyes. "With all due respect, sir, what favor do you seek?"

"Only a simple request," he answered, his voice soft and lush like crushed velvet, "but first, I insist upon paying tribute."

"Please sir," the princess protested, shaking her head, clearly wishing to just be done with the entire process, "truly, it is not necessary. We have all the chickens we could possibly need, more pomegranates than we could ever eat, and we would hardly have any use for another goat…"

Without saying a word, the figure pulled out an old, worn violin and began to play. The princess could not help but emit a startled gasp, as her heart was stirred by the sound of a melody she knew well—one she had heard many times during _his_ captivity.

"Guards," she ordered, standing from her throne, "leave us." Her escorts immediately filed out of the throne room, confused, yet still willing to honor the princess's strange request. She had proven herself to be smart and capable, and they knew there must be a reason for her irregular demands.

Once they were alone, the green-eyed princess quietly walked toward the mysterious gentleman before her. Slowly, she lifted her hands to pull back his hood, revealing a face half covered with a mask—glowing golden eyes peering out at her. Staring at him in stunned silence for a moment, a wide smile spread across her face just before she threw her arms around his neck, crying, "Erik!"

"Yes," Erik responded, a bit taken aback by her enthusiastic greeting, but slowly raising his arms to tentatively return her hug. "It is me, Little Princess…"

"Oh, Erik!" Yasmin laughed, patting his shoulder lightly as she pulled a bit away from him so that she could look in his eyes. "I am hardly the _little_ princess anymore! That title has been taken on by my brother's two daughters Maliheh and Golmehr. Oh! and just last month, Allah bestowed a little prince, Farzard upon Kevah and Faribah!"

"Faribah!" Erik exclaimed, his eyes widening in shock.

"That's right!" Yasmin laughed. "You didn't know! Kevah and Faribah were married shortly after your departure! At first, I believed it was to reward her for her part in rescuing me, but then, it became apparent that there was something more between them."

Still in shock Erik exclaimed, "A harem girl became the queen of Mazanderan?"

"Yes, Erik," Yasmin nodded, "I don't see why you are so surprised. You knew my brother was going to do things differently. He married for love, not for status. And the royal couple is very happy together—as you can probably tell, by the number of heirs they have produced. The harem is no longer a place for the most desirable women of Persia to sit around and wait to be forced to surrender their bodies for the pleasure of their ruler. It is now a sanctuary where women who wish to pursue knowledge and study can go to live away from worldly distraction. It has become a place of learning—not of subjugation. Kevah has no other wives nor does he keep any concubines. Faribah is his only love."

Erik smiled fondly at this news, proud of his old friend, and commented, "I have no doubt, she would be enough."

Yasmin looked at him momentarily with narrowed eyes, but quickly added "They are due back soon from their visit to Karabakh. They will be so happy to see you!"

"I am not so certain of that," Erik responded, suddenly wondering if he had been wise to come back here. So much had changed.

Rolling her eyes, Yasmin countered, "Well, _I_ know they will." Then, turning the conversation back upon her friend, she smiled and asked, "And how do you fare, Erik? Where's your beloved Annie? You two must have an entire army of heirs by now, if Kevah and Faribah have managed three…"

"Things did not exactly turn out as planned, Yasmin," Erik said, the old sting flaring up again in his heart as he looked away awkwardly. "And I don't really wish to discuss that now."

It was Yasmin's turn to be surprised by her friend's sudden shift in attitude, but after a moment, she quietly responded, "Very well, Erik." Trying to lighten the mood, she added, "You have paid your tribute, _sir_. What _simple request_ do you ask?"

"I had hoped," Erik began, uncertain if he should in fact reveal his desire, or if he should move on yet again, "for a place to stay, but perhaps…"

"Of course, Erik!" Yasmin smiled brightly upon him, "That goes without saying. We told you when you left us all those years ago, that you would always find a home here."

"Yasmin," Erik said quietly, his melancholy mood having taken firm hold of his demeanor, "I have no home."

"All the more reason, then," she retorted, taking his arm and linking it through hers as she began to lead him out of the throne room, "for you to stay with us. Of course, I warn you, I _will_ insist upon another song after dinner tonight…for which you will join me in the dining room as soon as you have freshened up."

"Yasmin," Erik shook his head, "I am not very hungry…"

"Never-the-less, Erik, you must eat!" she insisted with a smile, reprising her old role from so many years ago. "Meet me in the dining room in an hour…" And then, her smile growing mischievous, as she turned to go, she added, over her shoulder, " _That_ is an order from your little princess!"

* * *

Dinner was pleasant enough—though Yasmin forced Erik to eat far more than he wanted. The hour was late when they left the dining hall, hoping that Kevah and his brood might actually arrive during dinner, but it seemed their caravan had been delayed. Erik walked Yasmin back to her quarters eager to get back to his own room to rest, for the first time in ages, in an actual bed. Never mind the dark haired ghost that would haunt him as he closed his eyes, the acute emptiness he would feel in his arms as he settled on his side. His body was currently so exhausted from travel, he was certain it would not be long before he succumbed to merciful slumber, at least until the nightmares woke him once more—the blood in the water, the agonized scream in the night, the final closing of a door.

Yasmin was prattling on about something or other while Erik had been lost in his thoughts, but when he heard her say "This is it, Erik," he came back to the present, realizing they were standing before her door.

"Thank you, Yasmin," Erik said with a polite nod. "It was a delicious dinner, even if you did force me to eat too much of it. Now I shall leave you here and retire to my own chambers for some much needed rest."

"Erik, wait!" Yasmin responded, reaching out and grasping his arm so that he could not go.

"Yasmin," Erik began impatiently, "I'm very tired and I…"

"Oh, just hush and look at this!" she cut him off, flinging her door wide open.

Erik huffed at Yasmin's insistence, but in order to pacify her so that he might, at some point, be able to make it to his bed, he dutifully looked inside her chamber. Much to his surprise, her walls were covered completely with sketches—most of them very good.

Intrigued now, Erik walked a few steps into her room, to take a closer look at the pictures. "Did _you_ draw these?" he asked.

"Yes, Erik!" Yasmin admitted, beaming. "I practiced and practiced the things you taught me, and finally, your lessons paid off."

Erik smiled with pride saying, "Really, Yasmin, they're quite good." Walking the length of the wall, he examined the various drawings of flowers, landscapes, and architectural pieces. He stopped, however, when he found a portrait of a young woman who vaguely resembled Annie.

 _How long will it be before I am finally free of you?_ he asked himself, already knowing that he would dream of the lover he had lost until his dying day—that her smile would forever haunt his thoughts.

"Thank you, Erik," Yasmin answered bashfully, "but I will never be half the artist you are! I will never forget that one portrait you drew of Annie… It was so elegant…so beautiful…"

Yasmin stopped when Erik turned to look at her and she could see the sorrow gathered in his eyes. "Erik," she asked, worried now for her dear friend and closing the door softly behind her, to afford him the privacy to speak plainly, "what happened?"

"Yasmin," he began, shaking his head, "I don't…"

"I know you don't want to talk about it," she interjected, holding up her hand to stop his train of thought. "Tell me anyway," she demanded, taking a seat on her bed, and folding her hands in her lap as she looked at him expectantly, awaiting the start of his story.

Glaring at her with narrowed eyes, Erik knew there was no way he could could escape this fate. Pursing his lips tightly together and shaking his head, he exhaled loudly before he started his tale.

"When I arrived back in Paris, I found that Annie had married another man. They even…had a child."

"What?" Yasmin gasped, her eyes wide in shock, "How could she? I thought she loved you!"

"I…" Erik suddenly found himself at a loss for words, having asked himself the same question over and over again for the past ten years, and never finding a satisfying answer. "…did too. But it seems the shah," Erik continued, his voice gaining strength and vigor as his anger began to surface, "extended his reign of lies all the way to Paris. He wrote to her that I was dead, even sending her a box filled with my hair as grisly proof of my fate. And Annie…" he added, his voice one again beginning to trail off, "moved on."

"Oh, Erik," Yasmin said, the horror of the situation weighing down on her, "I'm so sorry…"

"I should have moved on too…" Erik said, barely noticing that Yasmin had made a reply as he started to pace around the room. "But I stayed," he added, "Because she begged me. She said she couldn't bear to lose me again. And I…I couldn't bear to lose her either. Eventually, her husband had a tragic accident and passed away." Erik paused and looked directly at Yasmin, anguish and hope both clearly reflected in his eyes. "She came to me, Yasmin…" he told her. "But not _all_ of her," he added, regaining his composure, and beginning his circuitous path around her floor once again. "She spent her nights wrapped in my arms, but her heart—her heart she kept locked away, in a place I could never touch. And yet I hoped, Yasmin. I hoped that with more time she would be ready to admit the love I was sure she still felt for me. And finally, we did reach that point. We admitted our love and I was about to put your beautiful ring on her finger—where it belonged—and at long last make her my wife."

"Why didn't you?" Yasmin asked, in confusion. "What happened?"

Erik took a deep, hitched breath and closed his eyes before softly saying "She lost our baby."

"WHAT?" Yasmin exclaimed loudly, never having imagined this turn of events.

Suddenly, Erik felt weak. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he buried his face in his hands. "Our intimacy resulted in a child, Yasmin—though we did not know until it was already…gone. She had finally told me she loved me," he said, looking over at her. "And in the next seconds, everything was over."

"I don't understand…." Yasmin told him, shaking her head, her heart breaking to see her old friend in so much pain.

"She started to hemorrhage, and I rushed her to the doctor. I was frantic that I was going to lose her. The doctor…he saved her…but he could not save our baby." Erik took a deep breath, trying desperately to steady his emotions before adding, "I had to tell her, Yasmin," Erik shook his head as his eyes filled with tears. "She did not take it well.

"Oh, Erik…." Yasmin said, moved with great pity at the sight of his tears.

"She _blamed_ me," he told her. "She blamed me for everything. For her husband's death. For the… loss of our baby… She said we were unnatural—twisted—perverse. That our entire relationship was bathed in blood. I begged her to see reason. I _begged_ her to stop. I begged her to stay," he added, his voice growing small. "But she left me…"

Tears stung Yasmin's eyes as she moved closer and began to rub soothing circles on his back. "Erik, I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"For nearly 10 years I have been wandering…from city to city…trying to forget," he told her, as tears poured from his eyes. "But I can't forget her, Yasmin. And I can never forget that I am a monster who destroyed my only chance at love."

"No, Erik!" Yasmin said sharply. "You are _not_ a monster!"

"I am, Yasmin!" Erik cried, raking his hands through his hair. "Annie said so herself! Finally, she could see the twisted, abominable freak of nature that I truly am. Love was never meant for me, Yasmin. I will always be alone."

"You are not alone, Erik!" Yasmin insisted, tipping his chin up to force him to meet her eyes. "You have me." She moved her fingers over to stroke his exposed cheek. "You'll _always_ have me."

Erik's eyes softened as he gazed upon her, seeing, for the first time in years, someone who genuinely cared. "Little Princess….," he whispered, overcome by the need to dull the pain—at least for a little while, "please help me to forget."

Yasmin's lips were tense when Erik first touched them with his, but after a moment, he could feel her begin soften under his kiss. Yasmin snaked her arms around his neck, sighing softly as Erik tangled his fingers in her hair, pulling her closer against him. The kiss lingered a few moments longer, Yasmin pressing herself against Erik so that he would know she was there, before they finally broke apart. Their eyes still closed, they rested their foreheads against each other.

"Erik," Yasmin stammered, when once again she could finally speak, "That wasn't… That didn't… I just don't think…."

"I know, Yasmin," Erik nodded fully understanding what she was trying to say. "It wasn't right. I'm sorry to have taken advantage of your kindness."

Erik _was_ sorry, because though he had been the one to initiate the kiss, it had been a terrible mistake. The feelings he had for the lovely woman currently in his arms were affection and fondness—but they were not love. It could not be love, because she was not Annie.

"It's alright, Erik," Yasmin assured him, soothingly stroking his hair. "It's alright. I'm still here for you…" she promised as she pulled him into a tight hug.

"Thank you, Yasmin…" Erik sighed, wrapping his arms around her too. "Your friendship means…a great deal."

Yasmin held Erik tightly in her arms, happy to let the comfort of a friendly embrace wash away Erik's pain and desolation, if only for a short time. When the door opened, however, a different type of pain was about to rain down upon them.

"Unhand my sister this instant, you mongrel!" Kevah's voice, wild with rage, came from the other side of the door as he charged toward the man currently embracing his sister on her bed.

Realizing what was happening, Yasmin shouted, "Wait! Kevah! This isn't how it looks."

But Yasmin's warning came too late. Pulling Erik off her bed, Kevah whirled him around and punched him in the face—hard.

"Kevah! _Stop it_!" Yasmin yelled, horrified to see blood trickling from the corner of Erik's lip.

A bit startled by the blow, Erik put his hand to his mouth, and seeing the blood that now stained his fingers, glared at Kevah. "See," he called to Yasmin, "I told you he wouldn't be happy to see me."

Finally recognizing Erik for who he truly was, Kevah seemed to grow only more enraged. "YOU!" he seethed, before lurching forward to land another blow.

"Kevah," Yasmin shouted, getting between them and putting her arms out to stop her brother, "It's _Erik_!"

"I know who he is!" Kevah snarled, staring daggers in Erik's direction.

"That's a fine welcome for the man who helped you ascend the throne!" Erik snapped in irritation.

"It is the _only_ welcome I have for a man who has been gone for ten years, without so much as a word, and then reappears only to molest my sister!" Kevah spat back.

"Kevah! Enough!" Yasmin yelled. holding her arms out to keep them both away from each other. "It was not like that! He was not hurting me!"

"Then what would you call it?" Kevah demanded, turning his angry gaze on his sister.

"I am not a little girl anymore, Kevah!" Yasmin informed him, standing a little straighter and jutting out her chin. "It is none of your business what I do in my own bedroom!"

Kevah's only response was an incoherent growl, and Erik knew that this was not the wisest moment for Yasmin to choose to exert her independence.

"She was only offering comfort and consolation," Erik said quietly, not wishing to stain his friend's reputation by perpetuating the wrong impression. "Nothing more."

"Is this true, Yasmin?" Kevah demanded.

"Not that it is any of your business," Yasmin retorted, nostrils flared. "But yes!"

Kevah glared at Yasmin another moment, before finally looking over at Erik, a bit more calmly. "In that case," he asked, "what the hell are you doing back?"

"You once told me I would always have a home here," Erik responded, a bit of humor in his eyes. "I had hoped that was still the case…"

Kevah paused, staring at Yasmin and Erik standing before him—each a source of his greatest frustration, but also the object of his dearest fondness and affections. He knew he owed much to Erik's bravery and cunning, and Yasmin…well, she was just being herself. Heaving a loud sigh, and feeling his shoulders fall just a little, Kevah relented. "Fine, Erik. Just as long," he added glancing back at Yasmin who scowled at him in disgust, "as your room is on the _other_ side of the palace."

Erik bowed low waving his hand in a grand flourish as a sign of deference to his ruler and friend, but he could not suppress a slight smirk as he muttered, "as you wish, Sire," before following Kevah out the door.

 **AN: Well, Erik is back in Persia and Yasmin hasn't changed a bit! Welcome to Book 3 of Prelude!**


	100. Chapter 100

CH 100

It struck Erik as the ultimate irony that the place where he had once been so cruelly imprisoned—the place where his very will to live had once been torn from his body—was the place

where at last, he felt compelled to take a respite from his endless quest to outrun a ghost. He knew it would be a losing battle; that the dreams would find him yet again—dreams of an angel dancing in the night, her long dark tresses swirling around her like waves on an inky ocean, a scarlet colored rose anchored behind her ear. Dreams of that very same angel wrenching herself away from him, telling him that her eyes had finally been opened, and that she now recognized him for what he had always known he was—a beast, a monster—the Devil's Child. Surely the visions would return to him, along with the sickly, metallic smell of the blood— _oh_ the blood—that gushed as his world collapsed and shattered on the floor. But for now, at least—for however long it lasted—that savage imagery was gone, and he could honestly say it was good to be among the new ruling family of Persia.

And what a truly ragtag family it was! The new shah had been a Royal Guard in the service of the despot who previously sat on the throne—and the queen had, at one time, been the former tyrant's favorite harem girl. Even his dear friend Yasmin, the shah's younger sister, had lived a life of slavery, and had almost been forced into marriage to the lecherous old ruler, because of the beauty of her luminous green eyes. But she had been only a child! And Erik, Kevah, and the lovely Faribah had put a stop to that!

There were some new members of Persia's royal family, however. Young ones who had not been born when Erik had been in Persia last. On the morning after he'd arrived at the palace, Yasmin knocked on his door at a very early hour and excitedly announced that she was going to introduce him to Kevah and Faribah's daughters. They were always up with the crack of dawn, and as a result, had already eaten breakfast and were in their nursery playing. The girls were fair of face, like their mother, and as sweet and outspoken as their aunt. The older girl, Maliheh was working very hard on a painting at her easel—and she told him, in all her seven-year-old excitement—that her auntie Yas taught her everything she knew about drawing.

"What are you working on now?" Erik asked, peering over her shoulder, his hands folded behind his back.

"A pony!" the petite princess answered, proudly. "Can't you tell?"

Before Erik was able to answer in any fashion, Yasmin interjected, saying, "Maliheh, I thought that was a puppy!"

"Auntie Yas!" The precocious youngster pouted, and Erik could not help but snicker.

"I remember your aunt being a very… _creative_ artist when she was younger," Erik responded to the little girl, with a wink, causing Yasmin to huff as she reddened a bit and refused to look at him.

Chuckling, Erik turned to the younger daughter, a girl of about five. "And what of you, Golmehr? Do you share your aunt and sister's enthusiasm for art?"

"Oh no sir," she responded, shaking her head. " _I_ love to dance!" She launched herself across the room in an impromptu pirouette before explaining, "I want to be a ballerina some day! They are the most beautiful ladies in the world!"

Erik felt his heart clench as he saw the little girl spin around the floor. Ballerinas truly were the most beautiful ladies in the world—he should certainly know—for he had never found, in any of his travels, a face that could compare to his Annie's beauty, or a smile that could warm his heart like hers. But as he watched Golmher in her spontaneous performance, he was reminded that ballerinas were the most beautiful little girls too, as visions entered his mind of a head of blonde hair, bouncing along with the music, blue eyes glittering with delight. His dear, sweet Little Giry. She would be twice Golmher's age, now—a young girl of about ten years old. Surely she would be a dancer—no doubt, by now, a member of her mother's own corps.

He had missed so many years of her life—and the loss of that sweet little baby who used to bounce on his knee, and sleep in the crib he crafted with his own two hands, was only slightly less acute than the loss of the woman he thought he would spend his life with. He would have loved to have seen Meg grow up—to know the woman she would one day turn out to be. He would have relished the chance to guide her along her way, and help her capture her dreams. She had once called him _"papa,"_ and he still wished, with all his heart, that she had indeed been his child. But love was not for him. Family was not for him…Erik shut his eyes and shook his head against the bittersweet memories that assaulted his brain.

"That's lovely, Golmher!" he heard Yasmin say, as she noticed his discomfort, "But Master Erik and I need to go meet your parents for breakfast now. I'll be back to read you a story later."

"Alright, Auntie Yas!" her little niece said, running up to her and giving her a quick squeeze. "Goodbye, Master Erik," the girl said, waving her hand at him.

"Farewell, Princess Golmher," Erik said kindly, nodding as Yasmin began to lead him out of the nursery.

"You were thinking of _her_ , weren't you?" Yasmin asked, when the girls were out of earshot.

"I am always thinking of her, Yasmin," Erik answered, a trace of bitterness in his voice, as they continued down the hallway. "It has been ten years since she left me, but still she will not vacate my heart. However, at that moment, I was thinking of her daughter."

"Her daughter?" Yasmin asked, scrunching up her brow in confusion. "Why?"

"Little Meg was…" Erik said, a tone of melancholy entering his voice, "very special to me. She was not my child, but at one point, I had thought that when Annie and I married, I would raise her as my own. Sometimes…" he added, looking down, "I wonder what she looks like now."

"Oh Erik," Yasmin sighed, stopping their forward progress as indignation grew within her. "I just don't like seeing you like this! It isn't right! I have never seen a man more in love with a woman than you were with Annie. Her memory kept you alive! And she just…she just _left_ you?" she exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air. "After having married another man and conceiving a child with him? You were good enough to forgive her and she just _left_?"

"There was nothing to forgive, Yasmin," Erik countered, feeling the need to defend Annie even after all this time. "She thought I was dead—it was no crime that she continued to live…"

"You must go on living too, Erik!" Yasmin insisted.

"What?" he asked, surprised by her words. "I have gone on living…"

"No, you have not!" she insisted. "You've been wandering all over the world—staying hidden mostly in the shadows. In ten years, you have not even found a home!"

"I have never had a home," Erik told her plainly, "unless it was with her. _Annie_ was my home…and I _lost_ her."

"You need a new woman, Erik!" Yasmin told him. "One who will love you and appreciate you for who you are…"

"And you need to join us in reality, Princess," Erik spat, growing irritated at Yasmin's insistence upon this ridiculous fiction. "There is no woman alive who would love me—or appreciate _this_!" he pointed to the mask adorning his cheek. "The only one who ever looked upon me and saw beauty was Annie—and even she finally realized that it was all an illusion that her loving soul created."

"That is not true, Erik!" Yasmin's stubborn nature caused her to continue the fight. "There is beauty in you! I saw it all those years ago—I see it now. And there are other women who would see it too."

"And that would not matter!" Erik informed her, taking a breath to collect his emotions. "Even if there were another poor soul who would be foolish enough to take a chance on loving a monster, I am not interested. My heart belongs to Annie, and it always will. Even though," he added forlornly, "she no longer wants it."

Seeing the hurt that had accumulated in Erik's eyes, Yasmin decided she should, perhaps, let the matter rest—for the moment.

"I am not going to push you right now, Erik," Yasmin informed him, her eyes growing softer as she gently touched his arm, "but I'm not giving up."

"I never thought you would, Yasmin," Erik responded, drolly.

"I want to see you happy," she added.

"Thank you," he told her sincerely, "but I was always told happiness was not for me. It took Annie leaving me to finally make me believe that, but now I do and it's just as well. No one should be condemned to live their life tied to a beast."

Yasmin took in a deep breath and shook her head, but said nothing as the two continued on their way.

When they arrived at the intimate dining room in which the Royal Family took their private meals, Erik had to catch his breath. There, behind the table, sat a woman with long black hair, gazing down at the babe she held in her arms, and for a moment Erik felt as if he had been thrown back in time. In his mind, he saw Annie lifting her head, eyes gazing at him from beneath long black lashes. "Isn't he beautiful, Erik?" she would ask, joy in her voice, a look of love in her eyes. "Our son!"

"Erik!" Kevah's loud voice jolted him back to the present. "I see my sister collected you for breakfast," he added, giving Yasmin a look as if to say that better be all she had done.

"Yes, Kevah," Yasmin responded. "I felt awful for Erik being isolated all the way on the _other side of the palace,_ especially since he has done so much to help this family. I thought the least we could do to be hospitable was to invite him to join in family meals."

"Erik is always welcome to join us for meals," Faribah chimed in, as she looked up from her child to regard Erik fondly. "It is good to see you back, old friend."

"Thank…" Erik said, his voice quiet, his eyes still resting on the child sleeping in her arms, "…thank you Faribah."

"Erik," Kevah asked quietly, noticing the wistful look in his eyes as he gazed at the child, "would you like to hold him?"

Erik felt his throat go dry. Oh how he had played the scenario again and again in his mind—Annie cradling their babe closely as she rose from her chair. Walking over to him with a knowing smile, she would place the infant in his waiting arms. The baby would be so fragile, so small, and yet he would carry the weight of all that was meaningful in his life. Annie would lay her head on his shoulder, and together, they would gaze down at the new life they had created—the physical manifestation of their love for one another—and know, without a doubt, that in this child, they were _one_ —and they would be forever.

But it was all a lie—only a dream that would never come to pass. Annie and his poor, innocent baby had both paid a devastating price for his love—a love that did not create, did not bond—only destroyed and tore apart. As the child in his dream turned his face on him, Erik could see now, that his perfect little face was twisted, his lips bloated, his skin paper thin. But his eyes—they glowed faint and yellow—and still they asked—no _begged_ the question— _why?_ To Erik, the answer was clear. His love was poison—Annie had seen that years ago. That was why she had broken apart from him—that was why his poor, wretched child had died—and why he could never be whole again.

"No, Kevah," Erik answered in a voice raw with bitterness. "I…I can't."

"You have arms, don't you?" Yasmin interjected, knowing exactly why Erik would not take the child, and wishing he could get past that hurdle.

"I _can't!_ " he spat, turning his head toward Yasmin, irritation blazing in his eyes at his friend's stubborn insistence to push him toward things for which he was not ready—for which he would _never_ be ready. Sucking in a deep breath, he forced his voice to be smooth as he looked to Faribah and said, "Thank you for the open invitation to your table, but, at present, I find that I do not have much of an appetite. I believe I shall take my leave for the time being."

Yasmin was about to open her mouth to protest, but Kevah placed a warning hand on her arm to silence her.

"It was lovely seeing you again, Faribah," Erik forced a smile as he bowed politely toward the mother and child. Then, turning to give Faribah and Kevah a quick nod, Erik took his leave.

* * *

Yasmin had not been joking when she said that she was not going to give up trying to make Erik move on with his life. Each night, in the dining hall, she would arrange for one—or several—of Persia's most eligible maids to be seated at the royal table beside him. After a week of awkward conversations, and uncomfortable stares at his mask, Erik simply began taking his dinner in his quarters.

After the first few nights Erik had employed this tactic, however, he found that his meals were no longer being delivered by humble scullery maids, but by buxom servants dressed in flimsy garments who made it a point to smile at him as they placed his tray on the small table in his room, even as suspicion of his mask shone clearly in their eyes. After the second night this happened, Erik just instructed that his tray be left outside the door, and waited until he heard dainty footsteps disappear down the hall before retrieving his meal.

When Faribah came to visit and promised not to let her husband's sister meddle with the seating arrangements, Erik agreed to join the royal family for dinner in the main hall again.

"We have some special entertainment lined up tonight," Faribah promised with a smile. "It is to be a night of song!"

As enticing as that had initially sounded, what the queen had neglected to mention, was that Yasmin had been given the task of coordinating the evening's event. The usual court entertainers had been replaced by musicians who specialized in Parisian instruments. And they were all women. And, unfortunately, they were all awful. The violinist was shrill, the horn payer was off key, and Erik had to excuse himself with a pounding headache when the supposed soprano had finished her murderous rendition Berlioz's _Entre l'amour_.

"I am sorry, Erik," Yasmin apologized the next morning at breakfast, as Faribah glared at her from across the table. "I thought you would greatly enjoy songs from your home country of France."

"I might have," Erik responded, taking a long sip from his coffee cup, his hand resting against his still foggy head, "if that had been music."

"I have a business proposition for you," she said, swiftly changing the subject to a topic she thought might be much more pleasant.

"I hope it does not involve any sort of sound," Erik responded, wincing a bit at the vibrations his own voice was creating in his head. "I don't think my ears could take it."

"No, Erik," Yasmin promised, realizing that sub-par music would not be the way to heal Erik's soul. "This proposition would utilize another one of your talents. Since I have perfected the artistic skills that you taught me, from time to time members of the court will commission me to paint their portraits. I had one such request just last evening, at the banquet—after you left—from a young woman visiting from a neighboring city. I will be happy to paint this woman's portrait, but since the master himself is in town, I thought you might enjoy the challenge."

"It would hardly be a challenge for me to paint a portrait, Yasmin," Erik responded, art always having been a natural talent of his.

"Well then consider it a distraction from the banality of courtly life," Yasmin urged. "You know you could do a far better job than I could."

"Yes," Erik agreed dryly. "I do."

"So then you will paint her portrait?" she asked hopefully.

"That is _all_ I plan to do, Yasmin," Erik told her, raising his finger, and narrowing his eyes at her suspiciously, "If this is a trick…"

"It is no trick, Erik," Yasmin swore, a satisfied smile raising her lips. "A portrait is all I ask."

"Fine!" Erik spat. "Have her meet me in the solarium this afternoon."

"I will tell her," Yasmin gushed excitedly. "You won't regret this, Erik!"

But based on her reaction, Erik knew he most likely would.

* * *

The hours before his afternoon appointment were spent catching up with Kevah. The two sat in the private garden talking together as Maleheh and Golmehr played in the pool, tiny Farzard sleeping in a raised basket nearby.

"I'm sorry Yasmin has been so insufferable lately, Erik," Kevah said, as he watched the girls play. "She is a very headstrong young woman."

"I know she means well," Erik said, truly understanding that his dear friend only had his best interest at heart. Her stubborn nature, however, mixed with her desire to always make everything right, made it impossible for her to see that there was no way to rectify his lot in life.

"That she does," Kevah agreed. "It's just that her estimation of _well_ often differs from just about everybody else."

Erik smiled and looked down. "I cannot deny that, my friend."

Feeling as if he had done his part in apologizing for his sister's rash behavior, Kevah changed the subject. "I read some news about the Paris Opera House today." When Erik made no reply, only sat there quietly, listening, Kevah continued. "Seems that they are going on hard times. Reviews lately have been quite awful, and attendance is down. Apparently, even the building itself has been falling under some disrepair."

"Those infernal buffoons!" Erik muttered under his breath, lifting his eyes, blazing with anger to meet Kevah's. "The managers at the Paris Opera House have no idea how to run any sort of establishment, much less a theater for the arts. While I was yet there, they hired sub-rate talent, and spent more time cow-towing to noblemen than caring about the quality of their art! And now, they are letting Charles Garnier's greatest masterpiece fall apart? Oh," Erik seethed, "It makes my blood boil!"

"The article did say, though," Kevah added, "that one bright spot remains, and that is the quality of the dancing. In fact, some have suggested they dispense with producing operas altogether, in favor of making it a venue strictly for ballet."

"Well," Erik nodded, looking down, " _Madame Giry_ has always been a talented ballet mistress. I have no doubt," he said, his voice hoarse with emotion, "that her performance remains exceptional."

Kevah looked at Erik, his friend's suffering apparent on his face. "You think of her often, don't you?" Kevah remarked, "And of what happened between you?"

"There is never a day when I don't…" Erik's voice trailed off, knowing that thoughts of his beloved would never leave his mind.

"Have you ever thought of just going back to her?" he asked quietly, "Of just trying again?"

"Kevah, I can't go back." Erik insisted, shaking his head. "I have done nothing but cause her pain and heartache. She even said so herself."

"Erik," Kevah countered, "Women say many things when they're hurting. Things they don't necessarily mean. Look, I know what happened to the baby you conceived with Annie."

Erik sighed loudly, running his fingers through his hair, "Yasmin!"

"Yes, Yasmin told me," Kevah conceded, "but only because she knew I'd understand. After Golmehr was born, Faribah quickly found herself with child again. Our hopes were high, and we were so grateful that Allah had blessed us with yet another child so quickly. But that baby didn't live."

Erik turned to look at Kevah, noting the darkness that had entered his eyes. "Faribah was inconsolable," Kevah continued his sad tale. "She pushed me away, and would not allow me to comfort her. She said some terrible things…" Kevah shook his head, as if trying to rid himself of the memories of his bride's harsh words. "Yasmin knows of our loss," he went on, "but not even _she_ knows how difficult it became between us. I remained patient, however, and I never stopped showing her how much I loved her. Eventually she came around and we were able to grieve for our child together. And we grew even closer."

"I am sorry, Kevah," Erik said, sincerely, "But even if all this was true, there've been too many years…it's too late."

"Yet even after all these years, _you_ cannot forget her," Kevah pointed out. "What makes you so sure it is any different for her?"

Erik's thoughts began to swirl in his head, and a sickly feeling settled in his stomach. Kevah was wrong—there was no way that Annie could ever want him back. Because of him her husband had died. Because of him, she had suffered the loss of a child. He could not hope that there could ever be the chance of a reconciliation between Annie and himself. Faribah may have eventually opened up to Kevah, but she had never thought him a monster. "Thank you, Kaveh," Erik said as a polite way to end the conversation. "Who knew the shah of Persia gave such sage advice on matters of the heart." Then rising, he added, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go prepare the solarium for a client."

Kevah rolled his eyes and shook his head, wondering what type of trick his sister had up her sleeve this time. "Good luck, Erik," he called, as his friend walked to the garden gate. "I'm sure you'll need it.

 **AN: Well, Erik is enjoying some family time-as maddening as that family might be. Perhaps Kevah has a point. Maybe Erik should just go back to Paris and try again. We all know that Annie could never forget Erik-even if he doesn't seem to believe that. But he's going to take a bit more convincing...**


	101. Chapter 101

CH 101

Erik set his art supplies beside the easel, and made certain that the lounge was positioned in just the right way so that the late afternoon sun would highlight his subject correctly. He had arranged for the woman to meet him at the golden hour, where the reds of the late day sky would create a softer, more flattering illumination—something he knew would appeal to the noblewoman's vanity. He could hardly believe he had let Yasmin talk him into this ridiculous exercise, but he had to admit it would be good for him to once again hone his artistic skills, rather than using his time trying to outsmart his friend's attempts at matchmaking, or pining away for Annie. He just hoped, sincerely, that the woman didn't want to talk.

A light rapping at the solarium door told him that, in fact, his subject had arrived.

"Enter," he called, as he continued to set out his paints.

"Good evening," Erik heard a soft, sultry voice say, and his heart dropped as he raised his eyes to see a woman—several years older than him—standing before him. Her hair appeared to be purposely disheveled, and her face had been painted in bright, heavy colors that he knew were considered alluring to most men in Persia. All this, however, Erik could overlook, but what made him decidedly uncomfortable was that she was wearing a robe—and from the way it tightly hugged her obviously ample curves, Erik could tell there was nothing underneath.

"Yes," he said, immediately averting his eyes. "The lounge is ready for you. You may go ahead and lie down."

"Alright," the woman said, slightly uncertain, but crossing over to the cushioned bench anyway. She sat down and asked, "Don't you want to…arrange…me some way? What's your favorite position?"

Erik felt somewhat repulsed at her clearly suggestive words. How was he going to draw this woman when he could barely stand to even look at her?"

"Just pose whatever way you want," he snapped, a bit impatiently, looking down at his brushes. "It's your portrait. Your position makes no difference to me."

"I see," she said, reclining. She pushed the lower half of her robe backward, so that her left leg was entirely exposed up to about mid-thigh. Her right arm was bent at the elbow, so that she could rest her head on her hand, her other hand falling, suggestively, over her pelvis. The neckline of her robe was separated, so that the majority of her right breast was completely uncovered. "I suppose a master can get what he needs from just about any position. He just needs to know how to take it."

The sickly feeling that had lodged in Erik's stomach at first sight of the woman grew stronger and more pronounced when he laid his eyes upon her to begin his work. "Madame," Erik said, his voice sounding thready and hollow, "are you certain this is the pose you wish?"

"Is this better?" she asked him, jutting her breasts out more prominently.

"It…" he swallowed hard, once again, casting away his eyes. He might have to look at her to draw her, but he didn't have to meet her eye. "…is fine, Madame."

"This is a lovely time of day you have chosen for our appointment," the woman said casually, as Erik begin to use his charcoal to put lines on the paper. "The golden hour," she added, "when the world attains a rosy glow."

Erik said nothing in response, only continued to draw. He wanted to finish this as quickly as possible. He should have known better than to accept an invitation from Yasmin! He had half a mind to throttle her for this one…

"…Everything seems softer," the woman was still talking, though Erik was only hearing about half of her words, choosing to focus instead on the steady scratch of his pencil against paper. "Warmer. So…full of…possibility."

 _Scratch, scratch, scratch_ went Erik's pencil as a likeness of the woman quickly began to take shape on his page. _Get it over with_ , he thought to himself. _Finish the task, and then go throttle Yasmin!_

"I've always thought of masks like that too," the woman continued, eliciting Erik's full attention by her mention of his mask. Erik raised his eyes to meet hers as she continued, "So full of mystery and suspense…can't help but wonder what they're hiding…," she added, beginning to rise from her reclining position.

"Madame," Erik demanded, although his voice remained flustered, "I must insist you return to your former position immediately so that we can complete this session."

"I have a better idea on how we might complete this session," the woman countered seductively. She was off the lounge now, and walking closer to him, her hand on the tie of her robe. "How about you show me what's under your mask."

"That…" Erik said, his voice growing hollow, his fingers slipping under the collar of his shirt to scratch his neck, which suddenly felt as if it had broken out in hives. "Will not happen."

"Oh, come on, Erik," the wanton woman said, "let's show each other what we're hiding… I'll even go first." And with one fluid motion, she loosed the tie that held her robe together and shrugged her shoulders so that the silky garment fell to the floor. When she was standing there completely nude before him, Erik could not have been more mortified.

Bolting backwards, he hid his eyes with his hand. "Cover yourself, woman!" he growled. "This charade is over."

"But the princess," she said nervously, bending to gather her robe from the floor, "she told me that you were lonely and in need of some _companionship_ …"

 _Yasmin!_ Erik thought, his vision clouding over red with the anger that was rising in his soul. How could she have done this? What was she thinking, setting him up for ridicule this way? He never should have trusted her!

Hearing the rustling of clothing, and lowering his hand just enough to see that his subject was securing her robe once again, Erik fixed on her with a snarl. "The princess was mistaken!" he seethed, and without even waiting for her to exit, Erik stormed out the door.

* * *

Yasmin looked in the mirror, as her lady in waiting brushed her hair to help ready her for dinner. A sense of excitement pervaded her thoughts. Her mind kept wandering to the solarium and the appointment that surely Erik was, at this very moment, keeping. She smiled, thinking that if all was going well, they likely wouldn't see him at the evening meal tonight.

The door to her room flew open loudly, and Yasmin jumped a bit in her chair as she looked over to see Erik standing just inside the room, his hair mussed, his breathing heavy. Fire burned in his golden eyes, and Yasmin immediately knew something had gone wrong. _Damn her!_ she thought, mentally berating the noblewoman who had shown such interest in Erik. _What had she done?_

"Leave us, Mena," Yasmin instructed her cowering maid, knowing that what Erik had to say was for her ears only. "I will make my own way to the dining hall."

Once the simpering girl had gone, Erik stalked over to where Yasmin sat, fury etched all over his face. "How dare you?" he demanded, wasting no time launching into his tirade.

"How dare I what?" Yasmin countered.

"How dare you sent that trollop into my presence under false pretenses?" he spat, pointing a finger in the direction of the solarium. "How dare you lie to me and tell me she wanted her portrait painted?"

"She did, Erik!" Yasmin insisted honestly, as that was part of the woman's original request. "She wanted her portrait painted, but she also said she found you fascinating. I don't see why _that_ should make her a trollop…"

"She dropped her robe in front of me, and stood before me completely nude!" Erik told her, causing her eyes to grow wide and her lips fall mute. "And it was not _me_ she found fascinating, Yasmin!" Erik continued, bringing his hand to his face, "It was my mask. She wanted to know what _mysteries_ lay beneath it. I had half a mind to show her… but I just wanted to get out of her presence!"

"It _might_ have been you, Erik," Yasmin countered, standing up as she finally found her voice after Erik's shocking revelation. "If you had given her a chance! But I know you didn't! You stalked over here to yell at me instead! Why are you so insistent on refusing to go on with your life, Erik?"

"I don't _have_ a life, Yasmin!" Erik growled, raking his fingers through his hair. "I _exist_ …Yasmin. I _breathe._ But my life ended the day I lost Annie. All chance of love—all chance of happiness died that day! And you _have_ to stop this insane quest of yours to find me someone to replace her!"

" _Why_ , Erik?" she cried, throwing her hands up in the air. "By Allah, _it has been ten years_!

"Because it will _never_ work!" Erik roared, taking a few steps away from her. Turning to face her once again, he continued, "Don't you see, Yasmin?" he asked her desperately, placing his hand on the center of his chest as tears pooled in the corner of his eyes. "Love is not for me—it can _never_ be mine. My face—my _past_ —those things made sure of it. Annie was the only one who could ever look past it, for a time, and in the end, even _she_ finally saw what I truly am inside. There may be other women for whom there is an initial… _macabre_ fascination with my mask…my _face_. But eventually they would all come to the same conclusion. That I was a monster—more dead than alive!" Erik covered his face with his hands, as he uttered a final sob. "No woman would ever want to love a corpse!"

Yasmin gazed at her friend, so lost, so broken, and heartache filled her chest. Black _hatred_ built up inside her for Annie, and the way she made him suffer. Erik was _not_ a monster—he was _not_ unlovable. He was a sensitive, brilliant soul who had been horribly mistreated his entire life—even, ultimately, by the woman he loved—who had sworn to love _him_ , only to betray him with another. Erik _deserved_ happiness—he deserved joy in his life. And if he could not trust another woman to give it to him, then she would have to do it herself.

"Erik," she said, reaching up impulsively and placing a hand on his shoulder, "Let it be me!"

Slowly, Erik raised his eyes, so that they looked at her—but he said nothing. Only questioned her silently.

"I only want your happiness, Erik," Yasmin continued, a few nerves showing through her resolved exterior. "If you refuse to believe another woman could give that to you then let it be me! I know you, Erik. I," Yasmin paused a moment, trying to decide on the right word. "… _care_ …for you. Deeply. Let me take away your pain, Erik," she pleaded, offering herself to him. "Let me be your sanctuary."

Silence screamed in the air as Erik stared at his little friend. Then, slowly, he took a few steps forward, completely closing the distance between them, making Yasmin tremble. Slinging his arm around her waist, Erik drew her very close. They were touching now, Yasmin's soft breasts crushed against the firm wall of Erik's chest. The arm that was not holding Yasmin in place, gripped her bare shoulder leaving a hot trail of sensation as it traced down the length of her arm.

Yasmin's heart was pounding rapidly—her breathing heavy—her nerves completely on edge. She had never been with a man before—she was still a maid. But the way that Erik was looking at her—with that dark _hunger_ in his eyes—she was willing to believe that it would end tonight. She had not planned on taking Erik to her bed—but if he wanted it—if that was what he needed to soothe his pain, and allow him to move on with his life, then she would be brave—she would do it.

Lowering his head, Erik brought his face very close to hers. This was it, she thought. This was the moment he would claim her in a kiss and she would give him…everything. She was ready, she told herself. She was ready to be a woman. _Erik's_ woman.

The hand that was on Yasmin's arm lifted, and was moving toward her face, and she knew—she just knew—it was going to tangle in her hair, so that he could hold her mouth in place against his. There was no need for him to do this. She would not fight him—she would accept his advances. Hadn't she just offered herself to him?

As Yasmin stared up at Erik, mesmerized by the molten gold stirring in his eyes, his fingers suddenly tore off his mask.

Yasmin gasped loudly and turned her head away, closing her eyes against the horror of the unexpected sight. She had seen Erik's face before—when he was ill and suffering in the dungeon. She had known he was hideously deformed, but still, she had not been prepared for seeing it just at that moment. She had expected Erik to take her—all of her—to use for his comfort—for his pleasure. Instead, at the last moment, he had turned the tables and tested her by giving all of himself. And she knew she had failed.

Yasmin forced herself to look back up, flinching slightly until she saw that he had replaced his mask. His jaw was tight—his lips set in a straight line, and eyes were full of sadness and disappointment. "You cannot be my sanctuary, Princess…no one can," were the only words he said to her, as he turned to walk out the door.

"Erik," Yasmin called his name, hoping that she could make him stay, wanting to explain to him that it had all been a mistake—that she simply had not been ready. She was ready now—she could handle it. But Erik kept walking.

 _"_ _Erik!"_ she shrieked again, and this time, he stopped, turning to look at her one more time, but his gaze was hollow. _"Erik, I'm sorry,"_ Yasmin sobbed, as Erik made his way through the door, closing it quietly behind him.

* * *

"Madness!" he thought, as he paced back and forth in his room, trying to fit together the pieces of the confounding puzzle his life had become. "This is madness!"

Why had he ever come back to Persia? For so many years, he'd wandered the earth, keeping mostly to himself, having nothing to do with human attachments. So what if he had found himself yearning for some type of companionship and growing colder and colder with every day that passed? Wasn't that supposed to happen when you were a corpse? A living breathing shell of yourself? Wasn't that what one could expect when dying was preferable to the miserable existence he had been experiencing?

Why had he come to Persia thinking that he might be able to resume his old comradery with the only people he could think of as friends. He should have known that it could not end well. He should have relized that he would spread nothing but turmoil—for he was the devil's child—the Angel of Death—an abominable freak of nature! Chaos and turmoil were what he did best. And now, his specific brand of trouble had infected Yasmin.

Oh, Yasmin—the sweet young girl who had cared for him and nourished him through his imprisonment, before growing into a stunning young woman. She had foolishly offered herself to a monster, in hopes of making him happy. Her irrationally generous heart could never be a match his corrupted, degenerate soul! Yet while he had turned from her after proving that she was not truly capable of making the sacrifice she offered, for a moment—a slight, fraction of a second—he had wickedly considered taking her up on her overture.

Perhaps she could have temporarily quieted his troubled spirit with her nubile body. Perhaps she could have briefly calmed his restless soul with her delightful caress. But in the end, he knew it would be all for naught. For nothing— _no one_ could fill the emptiness that had resided within him for the past ten years. There was no woman on earth who could mend his heart—no lover in the world who could fix what was broken. Only Annie—always Annie. But Annie did not want him.

 _Yet even after all these years, you cannot forget her_ , Kevah's words came back to him, unbidden. _What makes you so sure it is any different for her?_

"I know she has not forgotten me!" Erik muttered to himself, raking his hands through his hair. "I am sure she sees me every night in her darkest dreams!"

But what if he was wrong?

What if Annie suffered from the same affliction he did? The constant sadness—the unending loneliness—the inability to go anywhere or do anything—even breathe—without being haunted by the ghost of emptiness—sorrow—regret?

"Oh, Annie," Erik sobbed, gripping the bedside table to steady himself as he felt legs begin to crumble out from under him, "I am so lost without you."

Erik knew he could not go on like this. He could no longer wander the world, trying to forget—it was no use! Her memory would be with him forever, poisoning his heart, infecting his soul, until he somehow saw her again. Perhaps the new Shah of Persia was right. Perhaps she couldn't forget him either, and she spent her nights yearning to feel him beside her in the same way he yearned for her. Perhaps she missed his touch the same way he ached for hers. Perhaps, after all these years, she could forgive him all of his mistakes, and they could try again… Perhaps they could finally get it right…

Taking in a deep breath, Erik straightened himself to his full height. He knew what was required of him. He had to stop running. He had to return to Paris to find out if Annie would take him back so he could finally live again. Or die in misery if she would not. Either way he would be at peace.

Gathering his few meagre belongings, Erik made his way to the large desk in the corner of the room. Pulling out the drawer and selecting a sheet of paper and a pen, he sat down to write.

 _Farewell, Little Princess._

 _Be happy._

 _E._

And leaving the letter on his pillow, where he was sure she would find it when she came to collect him for his morning meal, Erik took one last look around the room, and then slipped out the door.

 **AN: OH, Yasmin! Look at what your impulsiveness has caused! But Erik is on the move again! Get ready, Paris. Here he comes!**


	102. Chapter 102

CH 102

"Ladies!" The ballet mistress cracked the hard tip of her baton loudly against the wooden floor, the sound reverberating to fill the empty auditorium. "You were a disgrace!" she hissed, the tight smile on her face only accentuating the disgust that dripped from her words. As she slowly walked the length of the stage, the newest in the line of ballerinas trembled, their shoulders hunched forward, their eyes trained on the floor, each fall of their mistress's heel like a drumbeat announcing impending doom.

The more experienced girls were somewhat less cowed by their leader's obvious dissatisfaction, accustomed as they were, to her demanding expectations. It was this way before every new production. Madame Giry insisted upon the very best from her dancers. She accepted nothing less than perfection, and the corps was subjected to hours upon hours of grueling rehearsals in order to achieve it. It was the price one had to pay as a member of the Palais Garnier's Corps du Ballet.

"If I did not stop the routine right then," their intimidating teacher continued, her voice unnervingly calm, "your bumbling was certain to lead to injury! That is not something we can afford, so close to opening night."

"With all due respect, Ma'am," one of the junior dancers, a petite girl, with the mop of golden curls, spoke out, "opening night is still a month away. We still have time to get it right."

If it were possible, the mistress's lips drew even more tightly together, and she breathed in deeply through her nose before answering, "Time can _not_ cure all things, mademoiselle." Lifting her head to survey the entire group before her, she added, "Especially not carelessness and a lack of attention to detail. No, the only thing that will salvage this routine is hard work and practice. _Lots of practice_. From the beginning!" She concluded, raising her hands to signal that the girls should resume their initial places.

A collective groan sounded from the assembly as they hurried to take their spots on the stage, and the littlest blonde dancer set her hands on her hips, whining, "But we have been working all morning! And I'm hungry!"

"Meg Giry," Madame lifted her head, looking down at her mutinous student, "are you a dancer?"

The girl only huffed in affirmation, knowing what words her mother would speak next.

"Then come and _practice_!"

"Yes mother," she heaved a heavy sigh.

"It is _Madame_ , during rehearsals," her mother corrected, bending low to whisper in her ear, "…and we will speak of this later!"

"I know," Meg grumbled, taking her place among the other girls. "I know!"

* * *

It was a wall—looking much like any other—designed to support, to bolster, to sustain. Nothing was meant to move through a wall—it was never intended to be an entrance or a method of ingress. Its purpose was to prevent—to halt—to keep intruders out while holding the accepted in. But Erik knew, as he stood there in the alley to the side of the Palais Garnier, that _this_ wall was not impenetrable.

It had been a long, harsh journey out of Persia—no luxurious private cabin to offer comfort, no chest filled with gems providing security. It had not been difficult for him to slip aboard a Russian bound vessel undetected, hiding in the cargo hold for the duration of the passage. Traversing from there had been somewhat more challenging, but ten years of wandering the world without a home had taught him many tricks. His stealth had allowed him to stow away on all forms of transportation, from ships to railways—making the journey across the forbidding landscape slightly less burdensome when he could—and traveling on foot when it was required. Finally, he had reached his destination and he stood there, huddled in the shadows, staring at a wall.

He knew that if he lifted his fingers waist high and pressed just so on exactly the right spot, the wall would yield to his touch and reveal its hidden vulnerabilities, allowing him access into the secret home beside the lake. Erik's hand rose and he gently touched the cold stone, but he found himself hesitating. Was this truly what he wanted—to return to this place where he had been shunned and turned away at his darkest hour? He had traveled a long distance on the hope that somehow, over the years, Annie had changed her mind—that she would welcome him back, gathering him into her open arms and begging him to never leave again. He had almost convinced himself that it would happen—he had nearly begun to believe...

 _You never should have come back!_

The phrase echoed in his head. _She_ had spoken those words—using their jagged syllables to cut him to the quick. Did he really want to risk the possibility of hearing those words again; that her opinion hadn't changed—that she continued to look upon him as a monster who had poisoned her body with his perverse love, and had caused the death of their unborn child?

Swallowing hard, he knew he had no choice. He had run away for far too long, never fully living, merely existing and waiting for a time when he might somehow feel whole again. He knew, after returning to Persia, that _that_ would never happen— _could_ never happen—unless Annie was in his life. And if she rejected him? Erik trembled as he considered that very real possibility, but he knew that it was better to finally succumb to a broken heart and allow himself to die, rather than to force himself to continue to endure without her. He no longer had the strength.

And so, he applied the gentle pressure needed to work the mechanism, Charles Garnier's ingenious design allowing a section of the wall before him to effortlessly slide open, with only the faintest of rumbling sounds. And silently, Erik slipped inside.

He retrieved the lantern he had hidden inside his cloak, making certain to light the wick before allowing the wall to close once more behind him.

 _Please Annie!_ He heard himself cry, as he made his first soft footfalls into the chamber where she had made her final exit from his life. He could feel the ground under his knees as he crawled behind her, clawing at her skirt, begging—pleading—for her to stop, his wretched cries echoing against the bare walls. _Do not go,_ he had begged. _You're all I have. I need you, Annie._

But in the end, of course, Annie _had_ gone. And Erik had been left with nothing.

Setting his jaw against the agony that was beginning to build in his heart again, he continued in his path. He reached the bedroom, where they had spent so many nights tangled in fevered bliss, spending hours on end entwined in carnal delight. It had been his favorite room in this little hideaway, but now, as he shone the light on the rumpled sheets and the shards of broken plates laying exactly where they had fallen when Annie had thrown her final breakfast tray to the floor, Erik felt a chill run through his veins.

 _You LEFT me!_ her screams reverberated in his head, as once again, he envisioned her fit of rage that sent food and dishes everywhere. He had tried to reason—had begged her to listen—but it had been no use. _Don't touch me!_ His heart ached as he recalled the way she'd flinched out of his reach. _I cannot be here_ , she had insisted, wrenching herself away from him. _I have to go…._

She _had_ gone, and it appeared she had never come back, as evidenced by the dust and cobwebs that now littered every surface. In the dining room, the table remained set, a thick layer of dust now dulling the shine of the woefully tarnished silverware. The roses that had once been so carefully placed in the crystal vase were now black and crumbled, withered away as the years marched on.

"She truly has forgotten," Erik muttered to himself as he looked sadly around their former home, realizing that once again, Annie must have moved on, even while he never could.

Pulling himself together, the rippling sound of water gradually filled his ears, calling him and compelling him to continue forward. His feet moved of their own accord, until he reached the lake, its dark waves glowing green in the light cast by his lantern.

Erik felt slightly unsteady as he recalled the last time he had stood upon these shores. Out of his mind with grief, he had screamed and clawed at his head, until his voice was gone and tufts of his own hair gnarled inexorably around his fingertips. _Annie_ , he had bellowed, praying she would hear him and return to her fallen angel, forgiving his sins and taking him back into her saving arms. _Annnniiiiieeee!_ he had screamed, to no avail before finally collapsing beside those waters, exhausted and spent, and ready to simply wither and die. He had reached his hand into his pocket, removing the ring that he had meant to slip around Annie's finger.

"You will never know love, Erik," he'd muttered to himself the words he had heard so often fall from his mother's lips. His hand had trembled so hard that the ring fell to the ground, but Erik made no move to retrieve it. There was no longer any point. "Love is not for you."

Now as he held his lantern out before him, and shone it back and forth along the ground, there was no shimmer, no glint of metal to be seen. The ring must have been taken by the lake, claimed by the waters that were meant to cleanse and purify, but had instead stolen and destroyed. It was just as well, he thought stoically. He would not be needing it.

Erik walked quietly a little farther down the lake, until he came to the small vessel that still bobbed gently on the waves, its steering pole waiting patiently within. Crouching low, he examined it carefully, checking for any wet spots on the interior. Reaching in his hand, and pressing down, he could see that the hull appeared to have remained watertight, even after all these years of neglect. Gracefully, Erik climbed inside, and untying the rope that secured it to the small dock, Erik placed the pole in the water, and set off across the lake.

* * *

"Alright, Ladies," Annie said, as they reached the end of the routine. "That will have to suffice," she waving to the musicians to cease their playing. "You are in luck," she informed them, when the dancers had all lined up dutifully to hear what their mistress had to say. "I must attend a meeting with Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin, and therefore, I must cut rehearsal here for the morning."

Relieved sighs rang out among the ballerinas as Annie saw their shoulders relaxing and their stances becoming less formal.

"Bear in mind," she added, raising her finger to demand their attention. "We shall resume for afternoon rehearsal in exactly two hours. That gives you plenty of time to enjoy a quick lunch and get back to the barré to practice your elevés and ron-de-jambes. I expect them to be perfect on my return! Is that understood?"

"Yes, Madame," came the grumbled reply, and Annie turned on her heel to exit the stage. Out of the corner of her eye, however, she saw a face that gave her chills slink out of the wings. The slovenly stage hand went by a new name these days, but Annie remembered him from when he was the despicable second in command at the gypsy fair. She had been shocked when he'd arrived at the Garnier some months ago, and she had spoken against his hiring to the management. Since Giles's passing, however, they rarely paid her words any mind, and had taken him on anyway, advising her to "stick to the ballet." He did not recognize her, since she had been merely a child when he'd seen her last, but she could tell he had an addiction to alcohol, and that his unhealthy interest in young girls still remained. Annie watched him like a hawk, doing her best to never let him get too close to her ballerinas.

"Don't you have work to do, Josef Buquet!" she asked sternly, folding both hands over the top of her baton as she halted her own exit from the auditorium long enough to allow the girls to titter off to lunch.

"Just taking a break, Madame Giry," he returned, fixing her with an irritated gaze. "Seeing as how all work and no play has certainly done no wonders for _your_ disposition," he added, looking her up and down, "I wouldn't want it to tarnish mine."

"Stay away from my girls!" she sneered, making certain that the last one was gone before turning to stalk off to her meeting with the managers.

"Madame Giry," she heard Buquet call her name, and gritting her teeth together, she turned to face him.

"What is it?"

"You're really not all that old," he began, his lips curling up into an unpleasant sneer. "And your husband has been dead for so long. Why is it that you are still _always_ in black?"

Pursing her lips and taking in a deep breath, she spat, "Time does _not_ cure all things, Josef Buquet," she repeated the words she'd spoken to her ballerinas earlier in the day. "Some wounds _never_ heal," she added under her breath as she raised her head in a dignified manner and proceeded to her meeting.

"Good afternoon, Madame Giry," Moncharmin greeted her, his bespectacled eyes glancing up to meet hers from behind a stack of papers, as Monsieur Richard pulled out her chair on the other side of the desk. Nodding gracefully in Richard's direction, she turned her attention toward Moncharmin, who had been the one to call the meeting to order.

"Good afternoon, Monsier Moncharmin," she said cordially, gracefully taking her seat and folding her hands in her lap.

"And how are you doing this fine day, Madame?" he asked from across the desk, fixing her with a sickly sweet smile, which fueled her suspicions that he was up to something.

"I am quite well, thank you," she answered politely. "Might I ask," she continued, "that we dispense with frivolity and get on to the real reason for our meeting? I am knee deep in preparations for the new season, and I really do not have much patience for meetings held during rehearsal time. After all, we can hardly afford to let the quality of our ballet suffer, since it _is_ the only thing keeping the opera house afloat these days."

Monsieur Richard placed a hand over his mouth, to cover the smirk that was forming at the same time that his colleague's smile faded. Antoinette Giry had long been able to confound Claude Moncharmin and Richard truly enjoyed her refusal to mince words with the irritating manager.

"Well," Moncharmin began, clearing his throat and tapping his stack of papers against the desk as he considered just the right way to formulate his next phrase. "I called you here to inform you that there will be a new dancer joining the corps du ballet. She will be performing the upcoming season with us."

"That is impossible," Annie shook her head. "I am far too deep into rehearsals to add a new girl now. I have no time to teach her the choreography."

"Never-the-less," Moncharmin insisted, "you will have to find a way. The student in question is an old family friend of the comte's. Her father has recently passed away, and she has nowhere else to go."

"Are we now an orphanage?" Annie asked, outraged that she was being burdened with this extra obligation right in the middle of preparing for the opening. "A charity for wayward girls?"

"As the comte' and his family are our primary patrons—whose support keeps the opera house functioning—we do _whatever_ we can…to make him happy," Moncharmin informed her.

With a heavy sigh, she turned to Richard. "What say you, Monsieur? Do you agree with Monsieur Moncharmin's assessment?"

"The arrangements have already been made, Madame Giry," he told her apologetically.

Shaking her head in frustration, Annie questioned, "Does she at least have some experience in dance?"

"I…," Moncharmin looked to Richard, and then back at Annie before admitting, "…do not know. However," he was quick to add, his face brightening, "her father was an accomplished violinist in Sweden."

"Of course," Annie smiled tightly, fixing Moncharmin with a withering gaze. "That's almost the same thing." Rising from her seat, Annie turned and without another word, began to make her way toward the door.

"Madame Giry," Moncharmin called. "You will find a way to use Miss Daaé in the show, will you not?"

"But of course," Annie nodded, her nostrils flaring a bit in her effort to keep her voice calm and collected. "After all," she added, "My manager commands!" And with a final curt nod in Richard's direction, she continued to walk out the door.

Annie slipped into the vacant office that remained largely untouched over the past ten years, closing the door behind her. She was sure she did not display any of the grace of her station as she flounced across the room and flung herself into the soft leather chair, but she did not care. She was far too frustrated, far too irritated by the bumbling fools who called themselves managers to worry about her appearance.

"Oh, Giles," she exclaimed, reaching out to hold the framed photograph of their wedding day that still sat on the corner of the desk, "they are fools! They are buffoons! They think nothing of the arts—only of how to make money. If they actually made talent their top priority for once, perhaps they wouldn't need to rely so much on the count's money. They put a screeching banshee on the stage every night and let her play act at being a soprano. The orchestra is flatter than a crepe. Do they expect an audience to pay good money, time and again, to have their ears assaulted by rubbish? Perhaps if they put something on the stage that was worth coming to hear, people would want to attend the opera—and then they wouldn't have to jump to acquiesce to every one of their patron's whims. But no, instead they cow tow and bend over backwards to meet the count's every wish—this time forcing me to take on a young girl who has no ballet experience just because her father—who used to play violin—was a friend of the count's! Now! With only a month to go before opening night! Do you believe that?

"Not that I feel there is any hope left for this season anyway. The ballerinas—this new young crop is just impossible. No seriousness when it comes to rehearsals! All frivolity. All giggles and titters. They are ridiculous! They even fall for the disgraceful advances of that insufferable stagehand—Josef Buquet! I caught the miserable fiend just as he was about to proposition the girls once again. He is such an insufferable swine! And he always has been. _You_ never would have stood for the likes of him being a part of _your_ opera house! It's no wonder this place is doomed! It has been falling apart ever since you…."

Annie's voice trailed off and she stared quietly a few moments at Giles's picture. "I cannot believe it has been so many years…. Those days…they seem like a different lifetime. Meg is so grown now…full of opinions and ideas…many of which do not coincide with mine," she added, chuckling softly. She will be dancing in the ballet this season, Giles. She is so full of sunshine—so much like you!" she whispered softly. "She's the only love I have in my life now, since you are gone. And since Erik…"

Annie paused feeling herself losing her grip on her composure and desperately trying to regain it. It was no use, however, because her frustration had given way to sadness, and sadness always brought thoughts of him. "Erik, I miss you…"

* * *

The cold stone walls of the passageways behind the opera house brought him a greater comfort than he ever thought he would know. These were Charles' creations—stones that _he_ had laid—his hidden genius known only to Erik. He could still hear the inner workings of the opera house muffled behind the walls that separated him from the world bathed in light. Though he had not been tempted to press them, he knew exactly where the panels were that would allow him a secret view into the universe of which he had never truly been a part—but a world that had meant everything to him none-the-less. As much as this had been Charles' masterpiece, it was _Annie's_ world—and because it was a part of her, he loved it.

And suddenly, through the darkness, as if in a dream, a muffled voice came to him from behind the wall. He had not heard those exquisite tones in 10 years—but he would never forget.

Annie. _His_ Annie.

Immediately locating the hidden panel and sliding it aside quickly, he gazed upon his only love. The sight of her nearly made his heart stop beating. It was all he could do not to break through the mirror and pull her into his arms. He was awestruck at the sight of her. Her long black hair was braided neatly and coiled into a bun at the back of her head, but Erik could remember it cascading in loose waves all the way down her back. Her lips were red as berries, and he could practically taste their honeyed sweetness on the tip of his tongue as they glided tenderly against his. Her fair skin glowed ethereally, pale as snow, against the black backdrop of her dress, and Erik's fingers tingled with the recollection of its creamy softness.

She sat hunched over her late husband's desk, a framed photograph from her wedding day in her hand. She was not looking at it, though. Her eyes were set off on some point in the distance, and as she stared straight ahead of her, she spoke.

"It's been 10 years….," her voice came, thready and hollow, and it shattered Erik's heart to hear her sound so broken. "So many cold, lonely nights—so many mornings waking up alone. I miss the fire in your eyes when you smile at me…I miss the sweetness of your lips. I would give anything… _anything_ …just to spend one more night enclosed in your arms."

"I made _so many_ mistakes. _I_ did this…I know it was my own rash words—my thoughtless actions that caused me lose you. But there is not a day when visions of your face do not haunt me—when echoes of your voice do not play ceaselessly in my head."

Erik was breathless as he listened to her words. Ten years, she had said. _Ten years._

For ten years he had longed for her—the ache of her absence relentlessly festering in his heart. Could it be that Kevah had been right? Had she yearned for him the same way he'd yearned for her? Could _she_ have known the same empty hole in her heart that _he_ had lived with all these years? Could Annie— _his_ Annie—have wanted him to come home?

Pinching her nose, Annie looked down at the picture in her hand. He could hear tears in her voice, and though he knew it was futile, he reached out his hand toward her, wishing that he could wipe away the sorrowful wetness that glistened on her cheek.

"Oh… _Giles_ , I am so lost," she collapsed in sobs, her forehead leaning forward to rest against the frame.

Erik felt the wind knocked out of him, her woeful words a punch in the gut. He grasped onto the wall to keep his balance as the world fell out from under him. _Imbecile!_ he admonished himself. How on earth could he have thought that Annie was speaking about him? Ten years? Was that the deceptive time frame that had given him that foolish spark of hope? It had also been ten years since her husband had died—a decade since she had become a widow. And lest Erik forget how that circumstance had come to pass, the words Annie screamed at him so many years ago resounded now, clearly in his head.

 _My husband—and the father of my child—is dead! Because of YOU..._

Because of him. He had destroyed Giles Giry and Annie had never forgiven him for it.

Erik's head began to swirl as he thought back to the years he had spent wandering the world—always secretly wishing, always quietly hoping he would somehow find his way back to her. He had just spent months on the journey back from Persia, hiding in the shadows, desperate not to be seen, all so he could get back to his beloved. What a waste it had all been! What a fool he had been to believe Kevah—to let that romantic buffoon's words give him hope! Annie was not in love with him. While he had been languishing in loneliness for the last decade, always aching, always hungering to be with her once again, _she_ had spent the last ten years pining over her dead husband! He had clung to the shadows, never allowing anyone to get too close, pushing away anyone who tried. He had even abandoned Yasmin—perhaps the most loyal and selfless friend he had ever had—with nothing more than a short note! She had _offered_ herself to him! He knew she did not love him, but she had been willing to try—all for _his_ happiness—and he had rebuffed her harshly, cruelly revealing his face to her and shoving her aside because his heart belonged to Annie. It would forever belong to Annie. While _she_ would eternally belong to Giles!

Fitting the panel back into place, careful not to make any sound even in his manic ire, Erik stormed down the hall. He was around the bend and far out of earshot when Annie drew in a shattered breath and wailed, "I still miss him so much… Oh Erik, are you ever coming home?"

* * *

Erik stalked the corridors on his way to the subterranean chamber, painful echoes of the last ten years careening through his head.

 _Oh Giles…_ Annie sobbed again and again, establishing a grim ostinato that set the foundation for his wretchedness.

 _Let it be me!_ Yasmin implored, a plaintive melody highlighting his guilt and frustration, _I only want your happiness, Erik_.

 _You know nothing of women,_ the shah cajoled in vicious counterpoint _, if you think there is even one alive on this earth who would be satisfied with a fiend like you!_

The ghostly voices repeated over and over in cacophonous chorus, an unyielding accompaniment to his descent into madness.

He had returned to Paris knowing that he would either find that Annie wanted him back or die in misery knowing that for her it was really, truly over. He only half believed that he had a chance to win her back until her own tantalizing words gave him hope. In those few short moments he had dared to dream—only to have those dreams dashed mercilessly to hell.

Fitting, he thought to himself, a wry smirk coming over his face. Hell is exactly where he belonged, for all the bodies he had tormented, for all the necks he had broken! Perhaps he should just descend to the lake and end it all, the _devil's son_ returning home at last! Let the icy embrace of the waters he loved freeze him as intensely as his _father's_ fires would burn. And _oh_ would they burn!

But suddenly a sound pierced through the discord in his mind. A clear, high descant, crystalline in quality, cut straight through the wall, straight through the stone, even through the thick fog of his madness. He ceased the steps that brought him ever closer to his destiny as the shimmering notes glistened in his ear, beckoning him, insisting that he discover the source of this glorious beauty he could hardly believe was real.

So affected by the mesmerizing sound, Erik fumbled as he searched for the hidden panel he knew had to be somewhere nearby. When he finally found it, the mechanism easily gave way, and Erik sucked in his breath as he found himself peering into the opera house's small chapel, directly at an angel.

 **AN: Well, hang on tight, because things are hopping back in Paris! Lots happening this chapter! Let me know what you think!**


	103. Chapter 103

CH 103

Erik was frozen in his spot—unable to move, barely able to breathe. He was completely taken aback, not only by the golden tones emanating from the celestial creature before him, but by the creature herself. Petite and delicate, her skin glowed the color of peaches mixed with the richest cream. Two beautifully pink lips were parted in song, and deep chestnut hair tumbled in dizzying curls down her back.

The wave of memory that hit Erik was a physical blow. Suddenly he was back at the gypsy camp, staring into the face of a girl with silken ebony waves who did not run, but instead, reached out for his hand. Overcome with an almost painful sense of yearning, this time, he did not order her to go. Instead, he found himself lifting his own fingers, hoping to make a connection with the exquisite being on the other side of the bars. If he could touch her—if she could feel what _he_ was feeling inside—that desperate desire, that overwhelming _need_ to love her, and be loved in return—perhaps she would not leave. Perhaps this time, she would stay forever.

The song that filled his senses abruptly stopped, and Erik jolted back to the present where, for the second time that day, he was reaching out to touch a wall. But before him, the singer still stood, and she had opened her eyes. Erik's heart fell to see that they were not the dark, soulful eyes that had long been able to peer directly into his core, but bright, watery blue ones, that, presently, were glistening with tears.

"Did you hear that, papa?" the angel spoke, her ethereal voice darkened somewhat by tears she was obviously struggling not to shed. "It was your favorite song. I hope I did it justice—I know how much it meant to you." Her voice trailed off as she stared at some unseen spot in the distance. "I'll always remember the moments I spent cradled in your lap—you humming the tune as you rocked me gently to sleep—or the hours curled up by the fire, listening as you made your violin sing the melody. I tried so hard to learn it, papa—to memorize every note and cadence. Did I sing it right, papa? The song you danced to with mama on your wedding day?"

Erik watched her eyes close once more, a single tear escaping and trickling down her cheek. She swallowed hard before whispering, "At least you are reunited with her now. I know how much you've missed her."

Erik's heart was moved with pity for this poor child—not an angel, but a girl who had lost the two people she obviously held most dear. Even through his misery, his anger at his own wretched situation, the shards of humanity that remained in his soul were moved to do _something_ for her—to find some way to help ease her pain. But of course, there was nothing he could do. He could not help—he could not comfort. He only destroyed everything he touched. It was just one more foolish desire he could never fulfill.

Erik turned to go, his thoughts again turning to the icy waters of the lake, when he heard the girl cry out once more.

"Did you hear me, papa?" she asked again, her voice becoming ever more choked by tears, her dainty little hands wringing together as she fell to her knees, the weight of her grief finally becoming too much to bear. "Can you hear me?" she wailed her pitiful question a final time, before her body was completely wracked with sobs. "Oh papa, I just miss you so much."

Erik watched the girl crumbled in misery, her all encompassing sorrow once again touching his own shattered heart. "I hear you," he murmured in a voice barely above a whisper, hoping that somehow her defeated spirit would sense that she was not alone.

Her head shot up in shock, her red rimmed eyes darting wildly about, obviously having heard Erik's plaintive whisper.

"Who was that?" she asked breathlessly, still searching for the source of the voice that had just answered her call. "Papa?"

Erik sighed, realizing the harm his thoughtless action had done. Shaking his head, he closed his eyes, and slid the panel back into place—protecting the angel from further harm by shutting out the light.

* * *

Dark thoughts swirled around Erik like the frigid waters of his underground destiny as he navigated the labyrinthine corridors behind the walls of the opera house. Echoes of the young girl's sad lament, and the look of shock etched with hope that lit her face when he made his foolish response…memories of Annie's rejection…of the way she pined still for the husband she lost because of him…the terror in the eyes of every single victim of his Persian torture chamber…the reverberating snaps of each neck that he broke...The madness would soon be over. He had had enough of never being able to hold onto anything for which he reached—destroying anything that ever came within his grasp. No, the lake was the answer to end all of his sorrows—to keep the rest of Paris safe from the Devil's Child. But, though it might have been masochistic of him, he just had to have one last look at the box that had been so pivotal in his time here at the Palais Garnier.

Erik's hand was poised to press the lever that would grant him entry into Box 5. It was here that Erik had watched Annie's first audition, as well as her triumphant opening night on the stage. It was here that an unbridled kiss led to the discovery of Charles Garneir's mysterious underground world. Here was the inception of the Ghost, a torn curtain and an ill conceived declaration giving rise to the legend of a Phantom, making ballerinas and managers alike twitter in fear. He had said goodbye to his only love in this spot, just as years later he had lost himself in the pleasures of her body while she cried out that she belonged only to him. Lies, he knew now. Meaningless lies, and yet, he had to see the scarlet brocade and golden balustrades one last time—just to relive the glory, and retrace the missteps that had led him down this path to his doom.

A blood curdling screech almost stopped his heart, making the lake's icy grip nearly unnecessary. Erik froze in his path as he heard the shriek again and realized, with dismay, that the shrill howl now assaulting his ears was someone's dismal attempt at the Queen of the Night aria. He could not call the noise polluting his ears _singing_ , as much as a bellowing caterwaul. With all sentimentality driven from his heart by the crime that was being committed against the great spirit of music itself, Erik tripped the mechanism and stalked his way forward.

Once again, he crouched behind the very same curtain from which he had caused so much trouble years ago, and peered aghast at the stage before him. There, strangling the life out of Mozart's great work, was the horrific soprano the ghost had warned the managers against a decade before. Carlotta Giudicelli, who had somehow gained fame in Italy, was still committing atrocities on the Paris stage. Ten years later! Apparently, the managers had not given his warning a second thought, and continued to operate as if she was some great draw to audiences; more likely, Erik was certain, the principal reason the Opera House was experiencing a serious decline.

Absolutely horrified by what he was seeing on stage, and yet compelled not to look away, Erik shook his head in disgust as the obstreperous diva continued to bray louder than anyone else, moving about with less grace than a ponderous hippopotamus crawling out of a river. Certain that she would make his ears bleed when she attempted the aria's usually glorious high F, he clamped his hands tightly against the sides of his head dreaming wistfully about his old Punjab Lasso the whole time.

Finally, the torture stopped, as the maestro mercifully insisted upon a break while the ballerinas entered the stage. Despite the fragile state of his heart, Erik stayed where he was hiding, his eyes searching out the woman he would always love as she led her corps onto the stage. Gone was any trace of weakness as Annie held her head high, cracking her sleek black baton on the stage to encourage the girls to take their places. Was it only his imagination that she glanced quickly over her shoulder, in the direction of the box, with a look of confusion on her face?

 _Can she feel me?_ Erik wondered remembering how Annie had always had the ability to sense when he was near in the past. _Does she know I'm here?_

When she turned her head back to the rehearsal, the stern ballet mistress was once again in effect, and Erik knew it was his own wishful thinking that made it seem that Annie somehow still felt the old draw of his presence. _She wouldn't care anyway_ , Erik reminded himself. She still misses _him_.

The dancers were quick to get into formation, much to Erik's chagrin, since it was only their arrival that provided his ears the respite from the soprano's hideous bellowing for which they had so desperately wished. Erik's breath caught when he saw a young girl with bouncy blonde curls near the end of the line. Could it be Little Giry, so grown up and dancing under her mother's tutelage? She had truly blossomed as beautifully as he'd always imagined she would—all sunshine and light and even more the image of her father than she had been when she was but a babe. _She once called me papa_ , he remembered as his heart clenched in remembrance of the small babe he had once cradled in his arms. But shaking his head, he reminded himself that it was far better for her to favor Giles Giry, the respectable husband and businessman, than it would have been if she had in any way taken after him. He was not the sort of man that should have been influencing a child's life—certainly not one so remarkable as Meg Giry.

The conductor raised his hand to resume the orchestral accompaniment once the last of the dancers were in place. Erik shot one more nostalgic gaze in Meg's direction before turning to go, not wishing that banshee's voice to be his last experience on earth.

"Madame Giry!" he heard the familiar voice call out just as the first strains from the orchestra began to swell. "Madame … _wait_!"

Erik faced the stage once more to see the young woman from the chapel scurry out of the wings, looking decidedly flustered. Leaning his head forward, he squinted for a closer look. He could see that her eyes were still red rimmed and puffy—evidence of the great sorrow she had spent just a short time before. She was now attired in the same white tutu the other ballerinas wore, however, which took Erik by surprise. With a voice like hers, certainly this girl was not a dancer!

"Uffa!" Carlotta huffed, rolling her eyes and folding her arms across her chest, making her displeasure quite clear.

"Yes?" Annie said, turning her head gracefully toward the young lady at the sound of her name.

"Pardon me, Madame," she said, breathing heavily as she rushed to take her place in line. "I'm sorry I'm late. I am…Christine Dáae…Ma'am."

"Me ne frega," the Italian wretch muttered her indifference to the girl's identity, making Erik's fingers itch with the desire to wrap them around her neck. Just as he felt his blood beginning to boil, Annie fixed her gaze on the put out soprano.

"Signora Carlotta," she said, a tight smile belying her obvious impatience for the diva's dramatics, "you have been living in Paris for well over ten years. Certainly you have learned a few complaints in French?"

Erik held a hand over his mouth to stifle a snicker. _Ah, Annie_ , _you still make me proud,_ Erik thought as the irritating performer gave a loud click of her tongue, launching into a series of Italian expletives under her breath.

Turning her attention back to the newcomer, Annie smiled tightly again, which told Erik that despite her words to the Italian songstress, she was not exactly pleased by the girl's presence. "Christine Dáae" she said with a delicate arch of her eyebrow, "Do I know you?"

"I…" the girl stuttered, shaking her head, "I don't believe so…"

"Well," she said, shaking her head, as if trying to dispel a wayward memory, "Christine. There is much for you to learn before we open in a month's time. Are you certain you can do this?"

"I…" Christine said with determination, though her trembling shoulders bespoke her true nervousness about the situation, "should like to try. The… _managers_ …said I should."

"Do try to keep up with the routine," Annie sighed. "I will make no allowances for the fact that you have come to the corps so late. The ballet at the Palais Garnier is the crème' de la crème. I shall not tolerate it being anything less." And once again cracking her cane on the wooden floor, Annie looked to her dancers before saying, "Come! We rehearse!"

"Finalmente," Carlotta took her place, a scowl still spread across her face as the orchestra once more began to play. Despite the battery that was performed on his eardrums as soon as the diva opened her mouth in "song," Erik found that he no longer wished to leave. It was as if he was glued to his spot, unable to take his eyes off the ballerinas as they began their routine.

Little Meg was simply perfection. She did indeed take after her mother—so graceful, so lithe, obviously a natural at the art of dance. Most of the other girls were also quite skillful, obviously having been attentive to Annie's instructions and demands. But Christine was a much different story.

She stumbled her way across the stage, trying to keep up with the other dancers, but obviously very confused by the choreography. Erik shook his head, recognizing immediately that Christine's talents were being grossly mishandled. If he had to guess, he would bet that those foolish managers were responsible for it. Christine could sing like a lark, and yet they insisted upon wasting her abilities in the ballet, when the opera house was obviously greatly in need of vocal talent.

Annie continued to steadily lead the dance routine, and though Erik could tell she was desperately trying to be patient, he could hear curtness building in her voice with every count. When Christine tripped over her own toes and fell directly into Carlotta, Annie's baton cracked loudly against the floorboards once more, signaling for the orchestra to stop.

"Watch where you are going, _fou achoppement_!" the soprano shrieked in French, proving her ability to insult was, indeed, bilingual.

"I…I'm so sorry, Signora…" Christine sputtered, her hands trembling as she righted herself, unable to look the formidable woman in the eye.

"Yes! Yes you are _sorry_! A sorry excuse for a dancer!" the diva spat unkindly.

"That is enough, Carlotta!" Madame Giry said sternly, walking over to her newest charge. "Christine," she said, keeping her head held high, even as she gazed at her pupil with some small measure of compassion. "You are dismissed for today. Join us tomorrow first thing in the morning in the rehearsal room, where you can become familiar with your steps before venturing to take the stage again."

"Yes, Madame," Christine nodded, her cheeks flaring red before she scurried off awkwardly without a passing glance for anyone.

"Alright Ladies," Madame Giry spoke, tapping her cane to demand order among her girls. "We have one month before opening night—and we obviously have much work to do. Maestro," she added, glancing into the orchestra pit, "whenever you and Signora Carlotta are ready."

Erik slinked away from the stage when he heard the first few notes begin to play, knowing that he could not bear to hear Carlotta sing one more time. He made his way back to the hidden passages behind the walls of the opera house, and scurried down the steps that would lead him to the lake, where his boat bobbed patiently, awaiting his return. There was much for him to do.

Christine was obviously not a dancer, and yet she had natural vocal talent that, with a bit of coaching, could easily make her a star, whereas Carlotta Giudicelli _was_ the prima donna of the opera house, but her woeful lack of musical expertise and her caustic personality were throwing Charles Garnier's masterpiece into a tailspin. Erik had expected that he would die this day, but he could not bear to leave this earth knowing that Charles's magnificent edifice was falling into decline due to that hateful woman, and the pair of incompetent managers that were at the helm. Christine Dáae should carry the prima donna role. She was not ready yet, but with some small amount of training, Erik knew she would be. All he had to do was to see to it that Carlotta was ousted, and Christine was appointed to take her place.

Erik smiled to himself, as he climbed into his little gondola, pushing off the shore with his pole, knowing exactly how he would do it.

He would resurrect the opera ghost. The Phantom would live again!

 **AN: Dun dun duuuunnnnnn... He's back!**


	104. Chapter 104

CH 104

Annie pulled up the blankets all the way to her daughter's chin, knowing full well that she would kick them off during the night. Yet, she felt better thinking that her daughter would at least start the night tightly covered against the cold. "It was very cheeky of you to speak out against my wishes at rehearsal today," she said sternly.

"I know, mother," Meg responded as her mouth opened in a wide yawn.

"I will not have you undermining my authority in front of the other dancers again, Marguerite Giry," Annie warned.

"I'm sorry, mother. I won't do it again," Meg promised, both she and her mother knowing that she most likely would.

"See to it that you don't," Annie reiterated, her strict façade beginning to fade as she brushed an errant curl away from her daughter's eyes. "I have enough work in front of me to prepare the corps for opening night without having to take time out of my schedule to discipline an unruly little girl!"

"Mother!" Meg protested, aghast. "I am not so very little!"

Despite her wishes to remain firm, Annie could not resist a smile at the words she herself had spoken so many times in her youth. "I know, darling," she answered, leaning forward and placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. "I know. But you can stay little just a short while longer, can you not? No need to grow up too fast."

"I suppose…" Meg sighed, smiling up at her mother. "I certainly don't want to grow old and mean like La Carlotta," she added, a devilish glint entering her blue eyes.

"Now Meg," Annie scolded.

"She was awful to the new girl!" Meg insisted as justification for her words.

"I…agree…" Annie responded slowly, finding it difficult to disagree with her precocious daughter. "Signora Carlotta is terrible, but you _must_ remember to mind your elders."

"If I must," Meg heaved a heavy sigh.

"You must," Annie pressed. "Even when it's difficult. Your father would have expected no less of you."  
"I know," Meg answered, looking down dejected. Suddenly, her eyes lit up again with excitement. "Will Auntie Giselle and Alain be back tomorrow?"

"They should be," Annie smiled, knowing her daughter had sorely missed her dear friend, just as Annie had missed his mother this past week. "That is why you must go to sleep now, so that you can have the energy to catch up with your friend— _after_ rehearsals."

"Yes, mother," Meg rolled her eyes, knowing the drill. Rehearsal would always come before play—it would always come before just about everything. Such was the life of a dancer.

Meg hunkered down into her pillows and yawned again as her mother gave her forehead another kiss.

"Goodnight, Meg," Annie purred quietly.

"Goodnight, Mother," was Meg's only response, her eyes already closing, as thoughts of running through the solarium with her young companion already filled her head.

Annie quietly stepped away from her daughter's bed, closing the door quietly as she exited the room. Without a sound, she stepped over to the overstuffed chair in the sitting room, letting herself flounce into it, at last taking a few minute respite from the stresses of the day.

"Oh Giles," she murmured, once again speaking to the spirit of her departed husband, as had become her habit in the years since his death. Whatever difficulties had existed in their short lived marriage, she had always known she could talk to Giles about anything. It still brought her great comfort to share her thoughts with him—to tell him about her troubles. "She still looks just like you, but there is no doubt she got her saucy attitude from me!" With little chuckle, she added, "You would love her, though—sass and all."

Annie heaved a deep sigh and leaned her elbow on the arm of the chair, resting her head in her hand. "I cannot say that I blame her this time, however," she continued to recount the day to Giles's ghost, imagining his clear blue eyes as he listened attentively to her every word. "Carlotta was particularly hateful today... Oh!" she exclaimed, as if a thought had just occurred to her as she replayed the day's events in her mind. "Remember that day when we ran into that little girl in the park that we taught how to dance the waltz? Her father was a friend of the count's… and her friend, his younger son, thought she was just awful on the dance floor? Well, you are never going to believe this, Giles, but that girl is my new dancer! I was not certain at first, but the more I looked at her the more I was sure that she was the very same Christine we taught that day in the park!" She paused a moment, then added, with a smirk, "And I am sorry to say that she does not seem to remember anything of our lessons!"

"Oh Giles…" Annie continued, leaning back in the chair, and closing her eyes in memory. "That was so many years ago. I had really only begun dancing at the Garnier myself, and Erik…Erik had just left for Monaco…" Annie's face took on a wistful expression as her voice hushed. "I had such high hopes, Giles, that he would come back to me—that we would live happily ever after… But when he did finally return, it was too late…" she murmured breathlessly, "and there was no ever after… But sometimes… Sometimes I almost feel as if he is still here with me," she whispered. "Like this afternoon—I could practically feel the heat of his golden eyes burning me, and I was sure—I was _so sure_ —that if I just turned my head, I would see him—watching me from Box 5." Annie reached into her skirt pocket to retrieve the handkerchief she kept there for when the tears overwhelmed—as they had so often this past decade. Never in front of any other living soul—never in public. But in these quiet, private moments, when she was alone with her thoughts and with her memories, she often could not help but cry.

"When I looked," she continued, dabbing the soft cloth against her eyes, "he was not there. There were only shadows— _always_ shadows. I don't think he is ever coming home, Giles. Of _course_ he's not," she amended, bitterness creeping into her voice. "I told him I never wanted to see him again—that he had ruined my life. He is only respecting my wishes—doing what I told him I wanted.

"But oh…" she sighed, "if he _would_ come home. If one day, there would be more than shadows…I would _run_ to him, Giles," Annie swore, taking in a deep breath. "I would throw my arms around him and draw him to me—not caring who would see. And I would tell him I was sorry—and that I loved him—that I had _always_ loved him. And I would show him," she continued, reaching under her collar and pulling out the chain she wore beneath her widow's garb, "that I had found his ring and had kept it," she added, holding the discarded bauble up to the candle light so that its fiery topaz would glitter and shine, "in the hopes that he would one day slip it onto my finger and finally take me as his wife."

"We were never meant to be apart, Giles," she swore again, tears now streaming down her face. "If I could, I would end this accursed madness, and hold him to me and never let him go."

Clasping her other hand against Erik's ring, she closed her eyes and rested her forehead against her clenched fingers. "But he is never there, Giles," she cried, softly. "There are only ever shadows…"

* * *

Erik did not exactly know where he would find Christine to put his plan into action, but he had a feeling she might return to the chapel to converse with her departed father after her mortification on the stage, and his instincts had been rewarded.

"She was awful, Papa!" he could hear Christine moaning as he approached the corridor behind the chapel. "So rude and insulting," she continued as Erik pushed the panel aside. "And she said things about me in Italian that I could not even understand—but I know they were unkind!"

It was late in the evening and Christine had changed out of her dancer's attire, and now wore a long white dressing gown wrapped tightly over her bed clothes. Her hands were crossed in front of her as she paced back and forth before the small bare altar at the front of the room.

"But she spoke in French when she told me I was a sorry excuse for a dancer, Papa," she continued, and Erik could feel his blood beginning to boil once again, as Christine repeated the diva's harsh words. "So that I would be sure to understand! And the worst part was, of course, that she was right!"

"Oh, Papa!" Christine threw her arms up in exasperation. "I am no dancer! I don't even know what I am doing here! I know the comté means well, and that his father was a friend of yours, but there is no way that my being here could not possibly end in disaster. I am graceless, Papa. _Clumsy_! And though she was not so unkind as the Prima Donna, I know the ballet mistress agrees. I could just see the impatience in her eyes, Papa! I am going to be an embarrassment to the Palais Garnier." She added. "I will bring them—and you—nothing but shame!"

"You will bring shame to no one, child," Erik responded, in a voice lush as velvet, wishing to end the girl's lament, but also knowing that it was time to set his plan afoot.

"Who is that!" Christine demanded breathlessly, her eyes darting back and forth in terror, as she backed away from the sound. "Who are you?"

"Do not be afraid, child," Erik spoke again, doing all that he could to make his voice soothing. "I am not here to harm you."

"But who are you?" she questioned again. "What do you _want_ of me?"

"I only came to hear you sing," he spoke in silvered tones, molten honey dripping off every word.

Christine's blue eyes widened and her head cocked to the side, but gone was the fear as she listened to the spellbinding voice.

Seeing the effect his words were having upon her, Erik continued to use his golden voice to his advantage. "I do so love it when you sing. Christine…" He said her name slowly, drawing out each syllable, watching her eyelids flutter gently as he did so. She was not afraid any longer—she would listen to him now.

"Shall I sing mother's song?" she asked, ready to do just about anything the voice commanded of her.

"Yes, Christine…" he affirmed softly, gently urging her to do his will. "Sing…"

Christine breathed in, deep and low, and once again pure, crystalline beauty poured from her lips. Just as Erik had sought to use his voice to influence her actions, he now found himself succumbing to the hypnotic qualities of her dulcet tones. He closed his eyes and got lost in the lilting melody, feeling himself floating—whirling around in a dance. The girl with the beautiful raven waves was warm in his arms, her heart beating strongly against his, as he held her close. "Erik," she giggled, as her deep brown eyes gazed up at him with joy, her long hair whipping out behind her.

"Yes?" he responded, completely mesmerized by her beauty.

"I…"

"Did I do it right?" Christine asked, as her song came to an end.

Erik was jolted out of his dream by the girl's question, and he gazed at her through the glass, knowing that he was now expected to respond. "Oh yes, Christine…" Erik answered, his voice thick with the emotions of his vision. Christine's voice had truly been exquisite. Her sweet melody had brought him right back to the happiest moments of his life—when the world had been a dream, and he had held the greatest treasure he would ever know securely in his arms. He had never heard a singer with such natural talent—and with just the smallest bit of direction, he was sure there was nothing she would be unable to do with that voice of hers. She would bring Paris to its feet—she would fill the seats of the Palais Garnier once more.

"May I ask you a question?" she asked timidly, catching him off guard, as he had been caught up in the fantasy of her future grandeur.

"You may ask…" Erik answered carefully, knowing that there were many questions that he would not be able to answer, "…But I cannot promise that I will answer."

"Are you…" Christine paused, her cheeks reddening a bit as if she were embarrassed by what she was about to ask. "…are you my angel?"

The question took Erik's breath away, and once again, he was thrust backward in time

 _"_ _I see you, Erik," Annie whispered with a sheepish smile, as they knelt before the underground_

 _lake of their forest home. "All of you…. And I think you are beautiful..."_

 _"_ You _are beautiful, my Annie," he murmured in response, his voice thick with emotion, as he cupped her cheek. "_ You _are my angel."_

 _"_ _As you are mine," she responded, laying her own hand over where his rested on her cheek._

"As you are mine…" Erik answered out loud, envisioning the dark eyed beauty who still loved him in his dreams.

Christine's face alighted with joy. "Papa promised to send me an angel after he died—an angel of music who would protect me and teach me!"

Hearing Christine's fantastical words and realizing they played right into his plan, Erik forced himself to focus on the task at hand. "I do wish to teach you, Christine," he answered, not exactly confirming his identity as a celestial being, but not denying it either. "And if you listen to me, and do everything I say, I promise, no harm will come to you. You will be a star, Christine—bright, shining—an angel of music in your _own_ right. And I will lay all of Paris at your feet. Will you listen to me, Christine?" Erik asked, eager for her response. "Will you let me teach you?"

Christine's blue eyes gleamed in the glow of the candlelight. "Yes," she said strongly, hope filling her voice for the first time, "Angel."

 **AN: Ahhh, Erik. He's having such a hard time staying in the present when all of his life's joy was in the past. And it doesn't help that young Christine reminds him so much of another young, beautiful girl he used to know...**


	105. Chapter 105

CH 105:

Christine was a remarkable student—already so talented that she easily picked up on all Erik tried to teach her.

"Relax, Christine," he began, drawing his syllables out lazily, making his voice almost hypnotic in its tranquility, "let all the tension depart from your body, slipping out of your pores, trickling out of your fingertips. That's right, child…" he purred, as he saw Christine's shoulders loosen, her arms hanging slack at her sides. "Now, hold your posture and breathe deeply," he instructed, "low, and centered. Fill not only your lungs, but your entire being with the air you need to support your voice and let it soar… _That's_ the way, angel," he whispered, excitement tingling through his veins as he saw Christine obey each command, her frame expanding with the air needed to produce the glorious music of which he knew she was capable. "Now, once more, angel, sing for me…" he demanded, and as Christine burst forth in song, Erik's own heart swelled. It would not take much, he knew, for her to be ready to replace Carlotta on the stage. Christine, this delicate lark, this exquisite little nightingale, would soon be the Prima Donna of the Paris opera house. She would save the Palais Garnier.

Erik practically floated back to his tiny boat tied to the makeshift dock in the underground chamber, enthralled as he was by Christine's talent. He sailed back to his home across the lake spurred by thoughts of their next lesson, and the exercises he would teach her to ready her for her upcoming new position in the opera house. Soon, she would begin work on the Queen of the Night aria. They would have to move at an accelerated pace, if she was to take over the lead before the season began.

That was, if the dancing didn't kill her first.

The following afternoon, Erik sat in Box 5, his ears being assaulted by Carlotta's screeching, his chair carefully positioned so that he was hidden in the shadows behind the curtain. He watched, with dismay, as his little songbird stumbled through the steps being so precisely counted out with each tap of Annie's cane. He tried hard to keep his attention focused on Christine, and not the raven-haired beauty who was losing more and more patience with each misstep, every fumbled cue. It was not Christine's fault, he thought to himself, that Annie had always been perfect.

His eyes drifted, once again, to the sleek figure clothed all in black. Erik had to admit that she was perfect still—even after all these years. His heart pounded at the sight of her, just as his arms ached to reach out and hold her one more time. The only thing that could make her even more exquisite was if her ebony waves were loosed from their confines and allowed to tumble freely down her back. Erik's fingertips mimicked the motions of pulling the pins from her hair, practically feeling the silken tresses slide through his fingers, as he rested his hand at the nape of her neck, slowly lowering his lips to hers, losing himself in the magic of her kiss.

The loud crack of Annie's cane and the titter of the ballerina's voices drew Erik from his daydream. Christine was on her knees, obviously having tripped over her own two feet while trying to perform the unfamiliar choreography.

"Miss Dáae!" Annie snapped, as Little Meg ran over to check on the mortified dancer. "Are you quite alright?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Christine responded, her eyes trained on the floor, as she worked to right herself, with the help of the little blonde dancer. "I…I tripped."

"Evidently," Annie responded, folding her hands over the top of her baton as she waited impatiently for her dancers to get back into position. "Did you not understand the steps we went over this morning?"

"No…I…I'm fine," Christine stammered, as she took her place in line. "I…I will try to keep up."

"Please see to it that you do," Annie responded tightly, taking a deep breath. "Maestro," she called, "Can we please do that section again, a little slower this time, so that my dancers can have a chance to orient themselves?"

Carlotta snickered as the conductor nodded and raised his hands to lead his musicians in the new tempo. Leaning over to her leading tenor, she _whispered_ , loudly enough so that all could hear, "More like so that her little _klutz_ doesn't break her leg…"

Annie shot the soprano a withering look as the music swelled and giggles broke out among the corps. Erik's fingers curled into a fist, as he saw Christine's cheeks color an even brighter shade of scarlet. Thoughts of murder replaced the amorous musings that had been so dominating his mind, and he knew he had to replace the hideous woman with his divine little chanteuse quickly—for the sake of everyone's sanity.

Carlotta gave a little shrug just before she straightened her back and lifted her head to begin her song, when a loud crash once again halted all activity on the stage. One of the large backdrops that hung from the flies landed in a heap on the floor, barely missing the preening show-off as it fell.

"Mio Dio!" Carlotta exclaimed dramatically, her hands flying up to cover her mouth in an expression of fear as she fell to her knees. The tenor, a short, rather portly gentleman quickly ran to comfort her, attempting to calm her lunatic ravings with soft words and gentle touches.

"Are you alright, _mi cara_?" he asked softly. "Are you hurt?"

"My nerves, Ubaldo," she declared hysterically, crumbling into his arms. "They are shot!"

"Where is Buquet!?" Monsieur Richard demanded, as he and Monsieur Moncharmin stalked their way onto the stage. "La Carlotta could have been hurt."

"That would have been _such_ a loss…" an unidentified ballerina called, starting the giggles up anew.

"Madame Giry!" Moncharmin snapped at Annie, fouling Erik's temper even more. "Get your girls off the stage!"

"But Monsieur," Annie protested, shocked at his rash command. "We must rehearse…"

"Until we find out what caused that backdrop to fall," he told her through clenched teeth, holding up an accusing finger, "rehearsals are over! And I do not need your little… _rats,"_ he spat, waving his hands at the corps "…making light of what could have been a very serious situation. Ladies!" he added, looking over to the dancers, "you have the rest of the afternoon off." And with that, he turned toward the soprano who was still trembling in the tenor's embrace.

The dancers looked to Annie, whose usual cool façade had disintegrated into a look of exasperation. When she waved her hand in disgust, they slowly began their exodus from the stage. "Miss Dáae," she called, trying to regain her composure enough to make something positive out of the horrible situation.

"Yes, Ma'am," Christine said, approaching the ballet mistress timidly as her colleagues filed off the stage.

"Meet me in the rehearsal room in ten minutes," she said, obviously rattled by Moncharmin's harsh words. "We will review the choreography…again."

"Yes, Ma'am," Christine nodded, and wasted no time scurrying off the stage.

"You too, Meg," Annie added, as the little blonde dancer tried to escape notice.

"Awww, but mother," Meg protested, her shoulders falling in disappointment, "surely Alain will be home by now, and I haven't seen him or Auntie Giselle in a week…"

"Meg!" Annie snapped.

"Alright!" the young dancer huffed, as she too stormed off the stage, muttering under her breath about the constant need for rehearsals.

Erik was incensed—over the humiliation Christine had suffered on the stage, in addition to the disrespectful way in which that bumbling fool had spoken to Annie. He was considering ways he could expand his plan to deal with the incompetent manager accordingly when he heard a voice that nearly stilled his heart.

"You called for me, Monsieur?"

Erik redirected his gaze to see a slovenly figure, dressed as a stage hand, standing in the midst of the fracas on the stage. This was no true stage hand, however, but instead, a ghost from Erik's past. Somehow, Yusef, the second in command from the gypsy fair, had managed to gain employment at the Garnier in Erik's absence! This was only more proof of the managers' incompetence, for whatever personal hatred he had for Giles Giry, Erik was fairly certain the man would never have tolerated his despicable presence at the Garnier.

"What in the hell happened up there?" Richard demanded crossly, his hands firmly planted on his hips. "Someone could have been killed!"

"On my honor, I do not know, sir," Yusef swore his eyes widening in an effort to look sincere.

"Well, you're _supposed_ to know, man!" the flustered manager insisted. "You are the keeper of the flies. It is your duty to know what's happening in the rigging at all times!"

"I was not at my post, sir," the man responded throwing his arms up in a gesture of defense. "And the rigging is old. Or perhaps…" he added, a conspiratorial gleam entering his eye as he shifted his gaze toward Moncharmin, "Our old ghost has returned to haunt the opera house once more? After all, it _was_ before my time here, but didn't he specialize in making things fall?"

When Carlotta wailed dramatically in response, Moncharmin raised his finger in warning.

"Josef Buquet! I will not have you frightening La Carlotta! And you will not deflect your responsibility! You are in charge of the flies—it is your job to see that they are safe! And I will hear no more of this… _ghost_ …nonsense! That may work with the ballet rats, but it will not work on me!"

"Besides," Moncharmin added, with a nervous laugh, "it has been years since the opera ghost last visited the Palais Garnier!"

"Then you do admit there _is_ an opera ghost?" the stagehand asked, raising his eyebrows.

"That is enough, Josef Buquet!" Richard snapped. "See to it that nothing like this happens again!" he added as he stormed off the stage in disgust.

"Yes, sir," Buquet nodded, stifling a snicker until Moncharmin had ushered the miserable soprano and her consort off the stage.

Erik seethed as he watched Yusef, or Buquet, or whatever he was calling himself these days, saunter off the now empty stage, chuckling quietly the whole time. "You will know" Erik grumbled under his breath, his fist now shaking in anger, "that there _is_ in fact an opera ghost. Oh, Yusef… you will know…"

* * *

"So, was it fun?" Meg asked her friend as they descended the grand staircase once she was finally released from the additional practice session with her mother and the new girl, Christine. She had not understood why her mother had insisted she be there, since they had spent the entire time solely focused on Christine's choreography. Still, Meg supposed it might have been quite frightening for the girl to have an entirely private practice session with the formidable "Madame Giry," so she put her resentments aside and tried to be as friendly as possible. Finding Alain and Giselle waiting by their apartment door when they finally returned had been all the reward Meg needed.

 _"_ _Be back before supper, you two_!" Annie called after the friends, as they had dashed off to play after a week apart.

 _"_ _We will,"_ they'd called, neither one of them so much as glancing over their shoulders as they continued to run.

"It was alright," Alain answered now, shrugging his shoulders as he recalled he week long trip from which he had just returned with his mother. "Wasn't much to do…"

"Oh Alain!" Meg gave him a friendly punch in the arm. "You just came back from _Italy_! With all of the artwork and the buildings and the scrumptious food, how can you possibly say there was nothing to do?"

"Alright, the food _was_ good," Alain remarked, flashing a sheepish smile in his bouncy friend's direction.

"You see…" Meg responded with a smile.

"And the art was interesting," he conceded. "But I would have had more fun if you had been there!"

"Well, naturally," Meg giggled, knowing that her friend could be a bit shy when he was on his own. "But mother and I cannot afford to skip _rehearsals_ in order to travel. That's why she sends you and your mother on trips instead!"

"One day," Alain looked at her, his blue eyes as clear and as open as the sky, "you will come with us. And I will show you all the wondrous sights of the world!"

"One day," Meg smiled, touched that her friend wished to include her in his future plans, even though she knew that it was very unlikely she would ever be allowed to leave the opera house. "But for now…let's play hide and seek!"

Alain's eyes gleamed as he answered, "Yeah!"

Meg grabbed his hand and guided him over to the niche that housed the glorious statue of the Pythia who tirelessly greeted patrons of the opera house with her ever watchful eyes and her ears that heard all. Pythia had long been one of Meg's favorite pieces of art in the opera house, and she often crouched down to hide behind her during her and Alain's games of hide and seek. Imagine her surprise when one day, as she leaned against the wall, she felt it shift behind her, opening up a whole new dimension to their games of hide and seek.

"Alright, Alain," Meg instructed, once they had slipped inside their secret hideaway, lighting the lanterns they kept just inside the entryway, "I'll hide, you seek!"

"Why do you always get to hide first?" Alain whined, though in truth, he didn't really mind.

"Because I found this place first!" Meg informed him, already starting on her way, " _And_ , I'm the girl. Ladies first!"

"Best for last!" Alain huffed after her, even as he turned and began to count.

"Then I'll go last as well," Meg returned, giggling to herself as she made her way down to the chamber by the mysterious lake that afforded so many wonderful hiding places.

She knew Alain would easily find her—she always hid down here first. And while he always complained that the place gave him the creeps, there was something so…familiar…about it.

She had felt it right from her very first visit—she had never been even slightly frightened here. No, it had always seemed like this chamber was _supposed_ to be here, just as the wooden post that stood by the water's edge belonged there too. The only thing that was missing was a little boat bobbing up and down beside it, secured by a strong tan rope. She had never actually seen such a vessel but her mind—or was it her imagination—told her it should exist.

Meg's footsteps fell softly—the benefit of years of ballet training—as she searched the chamber for the perfect hiding place—some new nook where Alain might not have found her before. She knew he would be right on her heels, since the dark always got the best of him before he actually made it to 100, causing him to start off after her sooner than he was supposed to. She was expecting her friend to be close behind her, but she was not expecting to see the light of another lantern ahead of her as she turned a corner that would bring her to the lake.

Meg froze as a solitary figure stood before her. He was draped all in black, a wide brimmed fedora resting low on his head, soft leather shoes on his feet, and hanging loosely from his shoulders, a long, billowy cloak. He might, himself, have been mistaken for a shadow if it had not been for the one splash of white that covered half of his face. A mask—a _half_ mask that ran from the center of his forehead, concealing his nose, and continuing down to taper off until only his lower lip and chin were revealed. And in the light spilling forth from the lantern he held in his right hand, Meg could see the shock lodged in his glowing golden eyes.

She had never seen this figure—this man—before in her wandering through the underground chamber, and yet… _and yet_ …he too seemed as if he somehow belonged. As if she knew he would be here—as if she had always been waiting for him to arrive. And while she knew it was ridiculous—that it could not possibly be true—she called out to him by the only name her lips would form.

"Papa?" she whispered into the dark.

She heard the figure gasp then, but he made no answer—his eyes only continued to stare at her, stricken as if by some strange wonder. But then, another voice arrived to end the moment.

"Meg… _Meg_ , I know you're down here!" Alain called, having finally caught up with her, ready to turn the tables on their game. "Come out, come out, wherever you are."

The dark figure's eyes suddenly filled with alarm, and he shook his head, indicating she should be quiet by lifting his finger to his lips.

Meg nodded, a silent promise that she would say nothing, and she watched in amazement as the figure moved to the side. There, tied to the post that had always stood beside the water, was a little boat, bobbing up and down in the water—just like she always knew there should be! And the figure gave her one more warning glance as he untied the vessel and climbed inside, pushing off the shore with a long, tapered pole and dousing his lamp so that he could disappear into the dark.

"Meg!" Alain called triumphantly as he found his friend simply standing beside the lake, staring off into endless, bleak nothingness. "Ha ha! I found you!" Meg only looked in his direction, but her expression remained blank, as if she wasn't really seeing him. "Meg," he asked, his voice filling with concern, "why weren't you hiding? I told you I was coming."

"I…" Meg began, still somewhat in a daze from what had just happened, "I'm sorry, Alain. Suddenly, I don't feel very well. I…I think I would like to go back now."

"Alright," Alain said, disappointed that they would not get to finish their game, but concerned about his friend's well-being. "Come on, I'll walk you back."

Together they walked back to Meg and Annie's apartments, surprising their mothers by arriving well before dinner. They did not mention anything about the underground chamber to Annie or Giselle, as it had been their custom to keep it their own little secret. Before Alain and Giselle left for the night, Meg promised they could continue their game the following afternoon,

"But perhaps in the park," she suggested, "for I think I would like to feel the warmth of the sun shining on my face."

 **AN: Well, Erik is finding that all sorts of unsavory characters are now working at the opera house. First Carlotta...now Yusef. But he, too, was discovered-by one of the people he loves most in the world-and once again, she called him Papa!**


	106. Chapter 106

CH 106

Annie had the sense that there was something bothering Meg right from the moment she'd arrived back so early from her jaunt with Alain. Though she and Giselle had made the children promise to return before dinner, they'd expected to serve the evening meal a bit late, allowing the usually inseparable friends the time to catch up after their week apart. However, the pair had barely been gone an hour before they traipsed back into the apartment, Meg looking particularly pale. Though she had assured her mother she was fine—merely exhausted from the _extra_ rehearsals—she remained uncharacteristically quiet while they ate. Annie knew something was weighing heavily on her daughter's mind.

Still, it came as some surprise, later, as they were drying the dinner dishes, when the usually bouncy girl asked in a quiet voice, "What was he like, mother?"

Annie froze mid scrub, her hand still holding the soapy sponge against the plate she had been washing. "What was _who_ like, Meg?"

"My father," she answered, looking down as she continued to drag a towel across her dish. "Tell me again—what was he like."

Annie's heart ached at the knowledge that her daughter would only ever know Giles through her own inadequate descriptions. Meg had been too young when he had died to have developed any true memories of her own. But Giles deserved to be remembered—his spirit kept alive in the mind and heart of the child he adored. So, taking a deep breath and turning back to the dish basin, she began.

"Your father was wonderful, Meg—full of life, full of joy. He was a brilliant businessman, a kind friend, a very loving…husband…" she added as a trace of the old guilt again washed over her, making her pause to take in a deep breath, "and a very proud papa. He loved you, Meg. You were his pride and joy."

Meg considered her mother's words for a moment, as she began to work on the next plate, moving her cloth in a circle on its damp surface. They were all words she had heard before, and yet, she had the distinct impression her mother was leaving something out. "What did he look like, mother?" she pressed, after a short silence.

Once again, Annie glanced over at her child, wondering why on earth she would ask _that_ question. "You have seen photographs, Meg," Annie reminded her, as she lifted a glass from the basin. "And besides, you need only to look at yourself in the mirror to behold your father's face. His golden hair curled as tightly and as beautifully as yours…and his blue eyes glinted with the same happy light. Your father was a creature of the sun, like you," Annie smiled fondly. "His light warmed everyone in his presence."

"Did he ever wear a mask, mother?" Meg asked plainly.

Annie's grip on the drinking glass she was cleaning suddenly became so tight that it shattered, slicing through her hand.

"Mother!" Meg gasped, setting her dish and towel in the sink and reaching out to take her mother's hand. "Are you alright?'

"I'm fine!" Annie snapped, as a ribbon of blood began to blossom from a small cut in the center of her hand. Grabbing a dry towel, she pressed it against her wound, shaking her head in irritation at her own clumsiness.

"But, mother…" Meg began, not understanding what had happened at all.

"Your father never wore a mask," Annie spat, quickly answering Meg's original question, suddenly needing to know where she would have come up with the image of a masked man. "Where did you get such an idea?"

"I…I…" Meg stumbled with her words, knowing from her mother's puzzling reaction that it would not be a good idea to mention the mysterious man in the mask she had come across in the underground chamber, "…remember him…sometimes…. Only…he wears a mask. And he is always in black."

Annie looked at her daughter if she had been stricken. "You…you _remember_?" Annie whispered in awe. It could not possibly be true. She had only been slightly over a year old when Erik had disappeared from her life. How could she possibly have any real memory of him, when she had no recollection of Giles?

"Not very much…" Meg swore, thinking that perhaps if she described bits and pieces of the underground world as if they were distant memories, her mother would fill in the rest. "Only shadows…and water…and a... a tall man…wearing a mask."

Annie blinked against the tears that were beginning to pool in her eyes. _She remembers you, Erik_ , she thought to herself, wishing with all her heart that he could know of the lasting impression he had left on his Little Giry. "That man…" she began, her voice hoarse and dry from the emotions she was trying to suppress, "was not your father. What you describe is not a memory, but a dream…"

"But mother," Meg insisted, not wishing to lose her only chance at an explanation, "he seemed so real."

 _I know_ …Annie's heart spoke silently. _Sometimes I swear I can feel him still, his eyes watching me, his breath on the back of my neck. Sometimes I know that if I only close my eyes, I will feel his arms circling around my waist, pulling me close, his lips nuzzling that hollow spot where my shoulders meet my throat. I can still hear his voice calling me—telling me he loves me—vowing that he is mine as I am his. But it is not real..._

"Dreams can often seem that way, Meg," Annie told her daughter somberly, as she opened the cabinet above her head and pulled out a swath of bandage, wrapping a length of it around her hand. "But when we try to touch them," she continued, tying off the gauzy fabric, "we find that they are nothing more than smoke and shadows—drifting away just out of reach, right when we need them most to be real."

Meg watched as her mother tended to her wound, the vacant look in her eyes making it clear that her mother would say no more on the topic. There was so much Meg wished to ask. Did her mother know about the tunnels hidden behind the walls of the opera house? What about the little boat that bobbed quietly upon the water? Did she know the man in the mask? Meg often got the impression that there were so many things her mother did not say—unspoken visions she looked upon when her eyes gazed so far away. And yet, she knew her mother would remain silent. Meg would have to continue to hold on to her secret—and find a way to answer her own questions.

"It was only a dream…," Annie muttered again, quietly, as she shook her head still staring at her hand. "It was only a dream…"

Meg nodded and quietly turned to walk to her room. She opened her door without a sound and had almost slipped inside before muttering, loudly enough for her mother to hear, "In my dreams, I call him Papa."

* * *

 _Papa?_

It was only one word, but its echo repeated again and again, bouncing off the walls of his mind, reverberating until it had reached a cacophonous pitch, a never-ending fugue that built and spread until it was the only thing left in existence.

 _She called me papa._

Erik ran the surprise meeting through his head again and again as he stalked the tunnels on his way to the chapel. He had not expected to encounter anyone behind the walls of the opera house—much less little Meg. It was obvious that Annie had not returned to their clandestine home in all the years he had been gone—why on earth would she have told her daughter about it? Especially since Annie held him responsible for all that had gone wrong in her life.

No, Erik thought to himself, Annie would not have told Meg about the underground world beneath the Palais Garnier. The bouncy little dancer must have somehow found the tunnels herself—proof that while she was the physical replica of her father, she clearly possessed her mother's soul.

Erik reached out a hand to steady himself against a wall as Meg's single word once again rendered him breathless.

 _Papa…_

If he was sure that Annie had not mentioned the underground chamber to her young daughter, he was absolutely certain she would, in no way, have mentioned him. He was the reason for all of her misery. It was because of him that Annie only had the ghost of a husband to love—that Meg did not have a father. But still, she had looked right at him and had not been afraid. He had seen recognition in her eyes mingled with just the slightest bit of confusion when she had called out to him.

 _She remembered me…_

"Little Giry…" Erik sighed, recalling how he used to hold her close to his beating heart—or how he would bounce her on his knee just to hear her shriek with laughter. She had been such a special joy in his heart—a child to love, though he himself had never _been_ loved as a child. The innocent adoration with which she'd looked at him was an entirely singular experience, and he had seen the hint of that same wonder in her eyes when she had gazed upon him tonight. He wished the moment had not been so short—that their reunion had not been over so quickly. But there had been another voice—a male voice—and so Erik had had to go.

"It's better this way," he huffed as he began again on his way to meet with Christine. She was far better off not thinking of _him_ as her father. _After all_ …he thought to himself… _according to her mother,_ _it is because of me that her true father is dead._

 _Her mother…_ the thought suddenly assailed his mind. Would she tell her mother about the strange encounter with the man in the mask? Would Annie now know that he had returned? His heart leapt briefly at the possibility before he could tamp down its enthusiasm with the reminder, "Not that she would care, anyway."

When he slid aside the panel that revealed the interior of the chapel, he saw that his obedient pupil was already inside. She was impatiently walking back and forth, her hands folded in front of her, wringing together in nerves.

 _Good_ , Erik thought, his mind temporarily freed from worries about Meg and Annie. _She is waiting for me._

"Christine…" he called, his voice immediately taking on a silvery tone.

"Angel!" his student practically yelped, jumping to turn toward the direction from which the voice had come, an eager smile spreading across her lips. "You are here!"

"I promised I would be, Christine," Erik murmured back. "Do you not trust your angel?"

"No, I…" Christine stammered, not wishing him to get the wrong idea. "I do, but…I suppose I am just eager to begin."

"As am I, child," Erik answered, a pleased smile curling his own lips, "for we have much to do. Today we shall begin working on the Queen of the Night aria."

"The aria?" Christine asked, her eyebrows knit together in confusion. "But Angel, I don't understand. Why would we be working on the aria?"

"Foolish child," Erik gently chided, "opening night is barely a month away. We have to start working on it now if you are to be ready."

"Ready?" she asked, still not understanding. "Ready for what?"

"To perform the role on opening night," Erik explained with a sigh.

"But…" Christine protested. "…But I am _not_ performing the role on opening night. That role belongs to Carlotta."

"Not for long," Erik assured her. "Signora Giudicelli is not particularly suited to the role. She will be replaced."

"But…" Christine shook her head, her nerves beginning to take over, "…surely not by me! I am not even in the chorus. I am a dancer."

"Christine," Erik said sharply, a stern undertone entering his voice. "We both know you are not a dancer! I thought you promised that you would listen to your Angel—and do everything I say."

"I did but…" Christine began.

"I will not suffer disobedience, Christine," Erik warned.

"I…" Christine vowed, stumbling a bit over her words, "I meant no disrespect."

"Then do not argue with me, child!" Erik snapped, his voice leaving no room for debate. "You will play the role of The Queen of the Night when the new season begins in one month's time. As to how exactly you will replace La Carlotta, leave that all to me. The only thing you must do now is practice!"

"Yes, Angel," Christine sighed as she nodded her head, duly reprimanded for having questioned her mentor.

"That is better, child," Erik told her, nodding as he breathed deeply to calm his own irritation. "Now, relax your shoulders and adjust your posture. On my count, we shall begin…"

* * *

It had taken her mother a long time to fall asleep that night. Meg often wondered if her mother would sleep better in the apartment's single bedroom, but her mother insisted the bed should be her daughter's. She swore she did not sleep well in beds anyway—that they were just too large, and she preferred to take her rest on the smaller, cozier settee. That night, however, as Meg had listened by the door to her room, it had seemed as if her mother's rest would never come. The restless shuffling had been followed by muffled tears, and it had taken all of Meg's strength not to run out and try to comfort her mother. Finally, however, the sounds had quieted, and when Meg soundlessly opened the door to her room, she found her mother laid out, exhausted, on the settee, her breathing steady, her eyes closed.

"Sleep well, mother," Meg whispered as she tiptoed to the front door of their living quarters and slipped outside.

There was not another soul stirring in the opera house and she was behind the statue of Pythia in no time, turning the knob on the lantern that would light her way as she wandered through the hidden tunnels. She had so many questions, and whether or not her mother _could_ answer them, it was clear to Meg that she wouldn't. So, on she journeyed through the darkness, on a mission to find the answers herself.

From somewhere off in the distance, she thought she could hear the ghostly sounds of someone singing. It was the aria sung by the Queen of the Night, but the singer was certainly not Carlotta. This voice was fresh and beautiful, and Meg wished with all her heart that she could hear more, but before she knew it, the singing stopped, and the tunnels once again descended into silence.

It was not long before Meg found the staircase that would take her to her destination—leading her down, down to the mysteriously beautiful chamber of the underground lake. Would tonight be the night she would finally learn the truth—would she finally understand why this dark world behind the opera seemed so much more like home to her than the bright cheery apartment upstairs? She had to find the masked man to learn the answers. She hoped he would be more willing to tell her than her mother had been.

Meg felt her heart beating faster as she descended deeper and deeper below the opera house. When she heard the familiar gurgling of the water, she found that she could barely breathe. She was so close—so near to solving the mystery that had plagued her.

But when she rounded the corner, running to the little post that she knew for certain now served as a dock, her hopes were deflated. She could see the distant light of a far-off lantern bobbing up and down as it floated down the lake, held, she knew, in the hand of a shadowy figure whose only splash of color was a stark white mask. She thought about calling out to him, but stopped when she realized the only name she knew would not be right. Though it had seemed only natural to call this figure papa, Meg knew that Giles Giry had been her father. And he had died when she was only very young. No, there must be some other connection she had with this mysterious man in the mask.

Meg stood there a few moments more, until the light disappeared around what she could only assume was a bend in the lake. Her shoulders slumped in disappointment, she made her way back to the stairs, knowing that no questions would be answered tonight. But tomorrow was another day—and Meg Giry would _not_ stop trying.

 **AN: Of course she won't give up! She is Annie's child! Like mother, like daughter.**


	107. Chapter 107

CH 107

Erik steeled himself for the task of observing another rehearsal as he stood behind the wall that opened to Box 5. He sighed in irritation as he wondered for a moment why he subjected himself to watching as Christine was forced to waste her talents in dance instead of leading the company with her celestial voice. He considered skipping the drudgery altogether, sparing his ears the unspeakable torture of hearing Carlotta brutally murder Mozart's beautiful works… _again_. It was enough to curdle the blood! Something compelled him to attend, however, so he quietly worked the lever and slipped inside the box, refusing to admit that the raven-haired ballet mistress—who would also be at rehearsals—was the true reason he could not stay away.

The mistress in question was standing to the far side of the stage, one hand perched on her baton, the other nervously fiddling with a chain that disappeared into the jet-black bodice of her mourning dress. She appeared to be scanning her gaggle of dancers, as if looking for one in particular. When Erik was finally able to tear his eyes away from her to appraise the situation, he immediately realized that Christine was not there.

"Meg," Annie called to her golden-haired daughter.

"Yes Mother…I mean," the girl coughed, correcting herself, "Madame?"  
"Would you please go find Miss Dáae?," Annie asked, ignoring her daughter's slip entirely. "She appears to have forgotten about rehearsal."

"Yes Máam!" Meg cheerfully responded, giving a graceful little curtsey before dashing off the stage.

Erik smirked at Little Giry's eagerness to leave rehearsals, even as the grace with which she departed made it clear that she would be suffering no ill effects from the missed practice time. She was truly a natural dancer, just like her mother. He had known it to be true even all those years ago.

Erik settled his long frame into a chair well hidden behind the heavy scarlet curtains. He watched as Annie corralled her girls to begin their routine, working though parts of the dance with them to model correct position and form. Erik found that despite himself, he could not peel his eyes away from her lithe figure. Even in her early thirties and after having birthed and raised a child, she was still as lovely as she had been in their youth, her timeless beauty ever haunting him.

He recalled other, happier times when she had tempted him with her gracefulness as he gazed upon her from this very spot—including the afternoon that she'd answered his call only to make love with him behind the curtains while rehearsals continued on the stage. He wondered for a moment, if she would come to him now, should he call to her. If she did indeed answer his call, would she eagerly move into his embrace as he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close so he could he loosed her glorious mane from its confines? Would her lips melt against his as he breathed in her essence, enlivening his weary soul? Would she whisper that she was his? Would it be true this time?

Erik felt his jaw set and his fingers curl into a fist, realizing once again that he was a fool. This puerile fantasy could never come true! Annie didn't love him anymore—if she every truly had. Her widow's garb was proof enough that she still grieved her dead husband, and Erik simply had to face reality. They would _never_ be together. Too much had passed that had torn them irrevocably apart. Annie had set her mind and her heart on other things. He too should focus his energies on what was truly important—saving the opera house and restoring Charles Garnier's masterpiece to its true glory. To that end, Christine would rise to the role of lead soprano. There was simply no other way. Never mind that Annie's presence still set his heart to pounding—her beauty—even after all these years—taking his breath away. It didn't matter now…it couldn't matter, he told himself once again, his gaze was drawn to the beautiful ballet mistress as she gracefully executed a masterful pirouette. Love was not for him. It could _never_ be for him. His mind had to be focused on finer, more important things.

"Ladies and gentleman," the nasally voice of Claude Moncharmin, the more ridiculous of the two remaining opera managers, interrupted the industrious milieu on the stage. All eyes, singers', dancers', and musicians', alike paused to look to their employer who was flanked by two finely dressed gentlemen appearing to be of noble bearing.

"You all know that Comté Philippe deChagny," Moncharmin continued, gesturing to the older of the two men, "has graciously agreed to stay on as patron of the Garnier after his father's untimely passing. We are pleased to announce that his younger brother, Raoul is recently home from a tour with the navy, and will be accompanying the Comté to many of our performances and the occasional rehearsal. Please join me in welcoming the Vicomté deChagny."

The younger of the two men stepped forward to receive the polite round of applause which sounded through the company. Slightly taller than his brother, he was dressed in a black and charcoal morning suit, a darkly colored top hat in his hand, not even one of his brassy blonde hairs falling out of place. When he bowed stiffly to the performers, Erik sneered at his perfection, certain that this young fool had no idea how much of the world had been thrown at his feet, simply because of the good fortune of his birth, and the random benefit of a winsome face. "Arrogant child!" Erik spat under his breath, "The world might swoon at _your_ feet, but I once made _you_ faint in fright!" he smirked, recalling the afternoon that this very same golden-haired boy howled in fear at the Opera Ghost's rage.

"Good day," the young nobleman began. "Thank you for your welcome," he added, "but please do not trouble yourselves on my account. I am only here to watch."

"While _I_ am here," the elder deChagny stepped forward to take Carlotta's hand in his own, "to bid good day to the magnificent La Carlotta." Producing a bouquet of roses from behind his back, he bowed low before her, placing a gentlemanly kiss on her hand.

"Oh," the diva cooed, her cheeks turning a bright pink, as she accepted the flowers, "you flatter me."

"You nauseate me," Erik muttered under his breath, crossing his arms in front of his chest, sickened by the ridiculous display taking place before him.

"Not at all, Signora," Philippe continued, as he rose to his full height, which, Erik noticed, happened to put him at the perfect vantage point to not so discreetly gawk at her rather brazenly displayed bosom. "You were always my father's favorite reason to visit the opera. He spoke profusely of your talents."

"Your poor, sainted father," Carlotta moaned, causing Erik to roll his eyes. "He was so good to me."

"You held a very special place in his heart, Signora," Philippe assured the aggrieved soprano, while her consort, Signor Piangi, huffed in irritation, "And therefore," he added pointedly, "you shall occupy a very _special_ place in mine."

Erik cringed at that, wondering if the extracurricular benefits of the opera had held more of a draw for the late count than did the music. It had certainly been the case with this elder son of his years ago, when he and Annie had first arrived in Paris. Erik recalled the count's mortification when Philippe deChagny had been found, literally with his pants down, consorting with the sickening Babette Sorelli on this very stage. It was all Erik could do to hold back a cackle, wondering if the new Comté would still flinch at the voice of the ghost.

"Well, Philippe," the vicomté said, reaching out a hand to touch his brother's arm, "Shall we not allow them to get back to rehearsal? After all, opening night will be arriving soon, and we certainly want the company to be looking and sounding its best."

"Very well, little brother!" Philippe conceded, turning his attention to Moncharmin. "Shall we retire to the office then, Monsieur, to finish signing those papers."

"Splendid idea," Moncharmin nodded eagerly as the gentlemen departed the stage. The company bade the men a fond farewell, but Erik did notice that as Philippe passed Annie, she lowered her head and avoided his eyes. Apparently, the ballet mistress had not forgiven or forgotten the sins of his past.

* * *

Meg hummed to herself as she skipped down the halls of the Garnier. Truth be told, she probably could be moving a bit faster, but she was enjoying the temporary freedom of time spent away from practice, and she was not in a great hurry to return to the rehearsal room. She had even taken a brief detour to the grand entryway, thinking for a moment that perhaps she might sneak below the opera house and catch up with the shadowy figure she had seen the day before—the one for whom she still had so many questions. Yet there were far too many other people milling about for her to safely slip behind the statue, and she knew that it was not the time for questions anyway. Her mother's temper would flare if she were gone for _too_ long. So, she continued on her way to the living quarters to fetch her mother's errant dancer.

She was just turning the corner to the bedrooms when she heard a beautiful, almost otherworldly sound that made her pause. Someone was singing—and it was certainly _not_ Carlotta. It sounded just like the voice she had heard echoing through the tunnels—but this time, it was not far away. It was coming from just behind the door!

A broad smile spreading across her lips, Meg ran the final steps to her destination. Throwing open the door, she found her mother's wayward charge, eyes closed, head back, mouth open wide in song.

"Christine!" Meg cried in awe.

The singing immediately ceased, ending in a bit of a croak, which made Meg giggle softly. The older girl's eyes flew open, and red spread over her cheeks at her unexpected audience.

"Meg Giry," Christine began looking over at the golden-haired messenger, "what are you…Oh!" Christine interrupted her own sentence with a gasp. "I'm late!"

"Yep!" Meg nodded, still grinning widely. "Mother sent me to fetch you."

"Oh no," Christine moaned, quickly rushing over to her cot, pulling back the covers, as if looking for something. "Where are they…?" she muttered under her breath.

"Where are what?" Meg asked, happy to join Christine in her search, if she only knew what she was looking for.

"My slippers…" Christine answered, bending down to inspect the floor beneath her cot. "I can't find them…Madame is going to kill me."

"Oh…" Meg chuckled, "She's going to be pretty mad…But she won't kill you. Not when she finds out that you sing like a nightingale…"

"No!" Christine barked, instantly sobering the younger dancer. "You must not tell!"

Meg halted her search as the smile faded from her face. Christine had gone stone still, her jaw set, her blue eyes blazing with warning. She no longer seemed nervous or flustered. Only deadly serious.

"But," Meg asked in a quiet voice, the corners of her eyes wrinkling a bit in confusion. "Why?"

"Because…" Christine floundered a bit, realizing how sharp her voice had become. She resumed her search for her missing pointe shoes, trying to appear nonchalant. "He said I am not quite ready."

Meg remained motionless, considering Christine's strange words as the dancer continued to look for her shoes. After a minute, she asked, "Not quite ready for what?"

"Ready…" Christine began, distractedly, opening the drawers on her small bed stand, "…to sing for an audience."

"Oh," Meg answered looking down to the floor. After another moment had passed, she asked again, "Who says?"

"My teacher," Christine huffed, wishing this little girl would stop prying. She had promised her Angel to tell no one of their meetings, but she was not a very good liar. Thankfully, she had finally found her pointe shoes—at the bottom of her drawer, so with shoes in hand, she stood to go. "Come on, Meg," Christine said, rushing toward the door. "We are already so late to practice."

"Who's your teacher, Christine?" Meg asked, still confused.

"He's an angel," Christine said over her shoulder, before rushing out the door, leaving Meg even more perplexed.

* * *

The next break in rehearsal found Annie glancing at the pocket watch she wore at her waist. At least half an hour had passed since she had sent Meg to go find Christine, and the girls had still not returned. She knew there was a bit of distance for the girls to cover, but surely, they should have been back by now.

Her left hand moving once again to clutch the chain that hung loosely around her neck, Annie gazed up into the flies. There she saw a hulking form tending to the rigging. Knowing that Yusef'—or Josef Buquet, as he called himself these days—was at his post, and not off meandering about the opera house while the girls were still unaccounted for made her breathe a little easier, but still, she could not shake the feeling that something was…off. There was a tension in the air—a sense of someone watching right over her shoulder. Still, each time she glanced over her shoulder, all she could see were shadows.

"Still waiting on your little ballerinas?" Annie heard from behind her and cringed as she turned to face Carlotta. The soprano was enjoying a few minutes of rest, while the orchestra re-tuned, and had not been able to resist goading the usually unflappable ballet mistress.

"Yes," Annie responded calmly, inwardly wishing the irritating woman would simply go away.

"Well, I suppose you shouldn't be surprised," Carlotta chuckled, humorlessly. "You sent a flighty, irresponsible child to fetch a flighty, irresponsible dancer. Perhaps next time you should send someone other than your little hellion to do your bidding."

It took all of Annie's strength not to lash out at the hateful shrew for her cruel words against Meg—but if she had learned anything from her confrontations with Babette Sorelli years ago, it was that arguing with a fool like this did nothing but fan her flames. Instead, Annie took a deep breath, flexed her jaw, and looked Carlotta right in the eye, as she responded, "I shall give your words the consideration they are due," before turning sharply and walking away.

"Mother!" Meg called, slightly out of breath after having had to run to keep up with Christine. "We are here."

Annie turned to see that, indeed, Christine had arrived and taken her place amongst the stretching dancers, while Meg was standing by the backstage entrance.

"Meg Giry," Annie asked, hurrying over to her and bending down so that she could speak in hushed tones. The low volume of her voice, however, did nothing to hide her displeasure. "Where have you been?"

"Christine…" Meg began, taking another deep breath, "Couldn't find her shoes."

Rolling her eyes, Annie rose to her full height. "Come along, then," Annie said, authoritatively, motioning for her daughter to follow her out onto the stage. "Go and stretch, so that you are ready when the orchestra is tuned. You have already missed far too much rehearsal."

"Yes, mother," Meg nodded, sighing, but hurrying along to do as her mother

asked.

The dancers were indeed ready to go when the first sweet strains of the orchestra began to play. Erik leaned forward to watch, and much to his surprise, Christine was able to keep up with the routine far better this day. She was still not as relaxed nor as graceful as the others—and perhaps, in dance, she never would be—but she adequately matched the steps of her fellow dancers. Erik was certain he even caught Annie nod a few times in her direction, subtly indicating her approval. Watching Christine enjoy some small measure of success was almost enough to distract Erik from the hideous caterwauling coming from the lead soprano. But the throbbing in his head was a harsh reminder of why he needed Christine to sing.

At the end of a long morning, rehearsal broke again. Annie released her dancers, warning them to be on time for the afternoon's practice, since there was still much work to do.

"Mademoiselle Dáae," Annie called, as the other dancers were exiting the stage.

Christine glanced over to her teacher, and penitently cast her eyes down at the floor. As she made her way slowly over to the ballet mistress, Erik did his best to drown out the ambient noise in the theater and focus in on Annie's words to his protégé.

"I trust you will manage not to misplace your pointe shoes again before rehearsal?" Annie said, her eyebrows raised as Christine stood before her, her eyes still pinned on the ground.

"No Máam," Christine shook her head. "I will not lose them."

"I should hope not," Annie responded. "For it appears you are finally beginning to grow into them."

Erik smiled as he saw Christine's eyes shoot up to meet Annie's. "Pardon, Máam?"

"I am not pleased that you were late for rehearsal today, Christine," Annie continued sternly, yet her voice softened as she added, "but it does appear that the extra rehearsal hours we logged yesterday have helped. You were far more prepared today."

"Thank you, Máam!" Christine smiled a rosy blush coloring her cheeks.

"You might even be able to avoid having tomatoes thrown in your direction on opening night!" Carlotta chimed in with a sickly grin as she passed on her way off the stage. Pausing to sniff the bouquet in her arms, she continued, "But I still think it'll be a long time before any roses get tossed at your feet! Which is a good thing," she added, with a chuckle, "since you'd probably trip on them. Ciao!" she called brightly as she continued to make her way out of the auditorium.

"Never mind her," Annie said softly to Christine, who simply stared after the vicious woman, at a loss for words. Patting her charge gently on the back, she added, "Her opinion of herself is far too great."

"Never fear," Erik seethed under his breath, his fingers curling into tight fists after hearing every one of Carlotta's vindictive words. "I shall set her straight…" And with a swish of his cape, Erik rose from his seat.

Annie felt that strange sensation again—that someone's eyes were boring a hole into her soul. But as she lifted her head to gaze out over the emptying theater, she could see nothing there. Nothing more than a shift in the shadows…

 **AN: Well, Meg certainly enjoyed her time away from rehearsals! And Christine IS showing improvement. Unfortunately, Philippe is still as smarmy as ever and Carlotta keeps digging herself a deeper grave...**


	108. Chapter 108

CH 108

Erik moved behind the opera house with ease, the layout of the hidden passageways forever etched in his memory. Sneaking into the stables had proven a slight challenge, as there had been a series of arrivals and departures at the noon hour, but Erik clung to the shadows and bided his time. After a short while, the stable hand headed out for his own midday meal, and Erik was able to quickly retrieve the materials he needed before setting forth for the diva's dressing room.

When Erik stealthily slid aside the panel behind her full length wall mirror, the detestable soprano was staring straight at him, her lips pursed as she applied another coat of garish red lipstick, the fingers of her free hand obsessively fluffing her hair. Erik recoiled, feeling that the layer of glass between them was far too thin a barrier for his taste, but after a moment, a knock sounded at her door, and Carlotta rushed to answer it.

"Comté deChagny," she greeted him as she opened the door, "how good it is to see you."

"Likewise," Philippe said, bowing low as he took her hand in his and kissed it once more. "Enchanté."

"Oh, Comté," Carlotta chuckled nervously, forcing Erik to fight back a wave of nausea.

"Are you ready for lunch, Signora?" Philippe inquired, rising to his full height, and extending his arm to her.

"Ci," Carlotta nodded, stepping out of the room and placing her hand on the crook of his arm. "Will your brother be joining us?"

"No, dear lady," Erik heard the comté answer, just before the door shut, "today we shall be dining alone."

When the distasteful pair was gone, Erik pressed the lever that caused the mirror to slide aside. He stepped foot into the heavily perfumed room, wincing at the smell, but a wicked smirk spread over his face when he thought of how his little _gift_ would take care of the offending aroma.

He stepped over to the dressing table, cluttered, as it was, with hair pins and jewelry. To the right of the large makeup mirror were the long stemmed red roses Philippe had given her standing tall in a heavily ornamented glass vase. It was so different, Erik thought, from the sleek, elegant silver vessel that had held the last roses he had bought for Annie.

Erik recalled how carefully he had chosen each individual bloom—making certain they were impeccable in both form and fragrance. Once he had gotten them home, he had painstakingly arranged each blossom in the vase, anticipation flooding his heart. Everything had to be perfect, after all. It was the night Erik was going to ask Annie to become his wife.

Reaching out, Erik ran the tip of one long, bony finger along the velvet petals. So lovely, so elegant, so sweet. The ultimate symbol of love and beauty. He had meant to spend the rest of his life cherishing and adoring the woman he had loved since the moment he'd set eyes on her. And yet…it was not to be.

"You do not deserve these roses," Erik muttered, forcing his mind back to the present, and away from the pain of that fateful night when he'd stood to gain everything and instead lost all. "But a sea of them will fall at Christine's feet, when she takes your place," he continued, venom dripping from his voice as he closed his fists around one then another of the delicate blooms, crushing them until all were destroyed. Lifting the sack he carried at his side, he emptied its contents over the ruined bouquet, the acrid substance spilling over onto the surface of the vanity table.

Erik took a few steps back and admired his handiwork. It was nearly perfect, but a smile of dark satisfaction spread over his features as he thought of one thing that could make it even better.

"A note," he muttered out loud, rifling through the dressing table drawers until he found a small piece of stationery and a pen.

* * *

The afternoon rehearsal session was going splendidly. The orchestra was marvelously in tune, their music sounding sweeter than it had in days. The chorus was particularly harmonious and well blended and the dancers were the epitome of beauty and grace. Even the managers, who had come in to observe, were smiling. The reason for the company's synergy was clear. Carlotta had taken an extended lunch break.

Erik leaned back in his chair as he watched the dancers move through their routine. Annie kept count religiously, tapping out a strong rhythm that they could all—even Christine—easily follow. Without Carlotta's jarring screeches in the background, Erik felt himself caught up in the music, mesmerized by the dance. The intricate twists and turns, the graceful leaps and glides—truly dazzled Erik's soul, and the persistent tapping of Annie's baton kept everything in perfect time. Until, of course, a loud slam of the auditorium door announced that the diva had finally arrived.

"Who did this?" Carlotta snapped, as the music abruptly stopped and all eyes turned in her direction. " _Who_?" she demanded, waving a piece of paper in the air as she stalked up the aisle toward the stage.

"Who did what, Signora?" Monsieur Moncharmin asked, as he and Monsieur Richard rose to their feet in confusion.

" _THIS_!" she barked, shoving the paper in the man's face, causing him to shrink back, his nose wrinkling in disgust. "Is this your idea of some kind of a joke?" she demanded, spittle flying from her lips.

Erik chuckled quietly to himself, thinking the joke was a rather funny one, as he saw the revolted manager gingerly take the offensive page from her hand with the very tips of his fingers, while Signor Piangi waddled as fast as his hefty form would allow, to stand at his beloved's side.

"When I arrived back in my dressing room after lunch," the furious soprano spat, "I found the roses that our dear Philippe gave me _ruined_ —mangled and crushed in their vase—with…with…" she paused to regain her composure before blurting, " _horse manure_ spread everywhere!"

"Well, that explains the smell," Richard interjected, making Moncharmin cluck his tongue. "And this…NOTE," Carlotta added, pointing at the paper the irritated manager held in his

hand, "…was lying next to the mess!"

Looking at the sheet in his hand, Moncharmin began to read out loud.

 _Greetings Signora,_

 _I feared your roses were looking a bit petrified, as was to be expected, since delicate blossoms prefer sweet sounds over discordant screeching fit to raise the dead. So I applied some fertilizer. Now they are fitting for a prima donna of your stature._

 _Happy to be of service, in your final days at the Opera Garnier._

 _Sincerely yours,_

 _O.G._

"What is this nonsense?" Richard sputtered as Moncharmin's voice trailed off with the final words of the letter.

"Exactly what she deserves," someone called, causing the ballerinas to erupt in a fit of giggles.

"Buquet is behind this!" Moncharmin insisted, ignoring the comment entirely and stalking off to find the stage hand, "He was spouting gibberish about the Opera Ghost just the other day! It would be exactly like him to try to resurrect this old madness!"

"Mi cara," Piangi whined, as he reached out to take his amour in his arms, even though she had just been dining with another, "who would do such a thing?"

"I do not know," she answered, suddenly dissolving into tears in the protective arms of her lover.

Erik was enjoying the chaotic effects of his handiwork so much that he never noticed how pale Annie's face had turned, her knuckles going white with her tightened grip on her baton. The fingers of her free hand once again tangling in the chain around her neck, she gazed up into the darkness of the empty auditorium and knew, without a doubt, that Box 5 was filled with more than shadows.

Erik had come home.

* * *

Somehow—she knew not how—Annie made it through the rest of rehearsal. She was truly grateful that the routine seemed to be coming along, because she was not sure she could find the wherewithal to correct mistakes with patience, considering how jittery she was feeling inside. Erik was back. He _had_ to be back. He had concocted the ridiculous idea of the opera ghost in the first place—no one but him would have the nerve to resurrect it—not even, as Moncharmin suspected, that cad Yusef. No, she knew that for some reason, after so many long, dismal years, Erik had returned to the place he'd once called home. But why?

Had he finally forgiven her, she wondered, for the cruel, harsh words she spoke that had sent him away? Had he thought of her as unceasingly as she had thought of him over the years? Had his soul finally grown so barren that he knew the madness had to stop? Had he returned to tell her he still loved her and that he was ready for them to be together?

Her spirit leapt at the thought, for of course, if he asked her to be his, she would say yes. She would leap into his open, waiting arms and beg him to never let her go again. She had been so broken without him—so lonely, so lost. She had thrown her energies into teaching, into mothering, but she had never truly felt complete inside. There had always been a part of her that was missing, a hole where her soul had been that she knew only Erik could fill. And now he was back!

But he had not come to her.

No, instead of making his presence known to her—of claiming her once and for all as his own, as night after night she had dreamed he would—the first inkling she had received of his presence was when he had spread manure all over Carlotta's dressing room, ruining her roses and leaving a note to claim responsibility.

It was so typical, so unmistakably him. Erik, the lost love of her life, had announced his return with a note. And yet, it was not written for her. There were no words of love and forgiveness—no litany of accusations that bewailed the harsh treatment she had given him. Even that, she could accept. But the note had not been written to her.

Not _for_ her _._

They were words about dead roses, and rancid manure.

Of _her_ , he made no mention.

"Antoinette!" Giselle's sharp address finally broke through the cloud of her thoughts.

"What," Annie responded, startled.

"This is the third time I have called your name!" Her friend informed her, exasperation coloring her tone. "Have you heard nothing I have said about our trip to Italy?"

"Oh no, I….," Annie tried to cover her distraction, but finally, with a heavy sigh, admitted defeat. "…I'm sorry, Giselle. I have not. My mind…is elsewhere."

"Would it be the same place you left your appetite?" The petite red head asked, causing Meg to snicker until Alain gave her a warning kick under the table.

Annie looked down at her plate. Her meal remained entirely untouched, even while her companions had nearly finished theirs. "I suppose…," Annie nodded, placing her fork on the table next to her plate. "I am not very hungry."

"Antoinette," Giselle said with concern for her friend. "You look as if you could use some rest. Why don't I take Meg and Alain back to the cottage for awhile, so they can play and you can have a break. I will have her back in a few hours…"

"Oh please, Mama!" Meg implored, her eyes lighting up at the prospect of spending the evening with her friend.

"We have a game of hide and seek to finish," Alain added.

"Yes," Annie nodded, rising from her seat to clear the dishes. "I suppose that will be fine."

"We'll take care of these before we go," Giselle said, lifting her own plate, and giving the children a look that told them they should do the same. "Just go and rest."

"Thank you, Giselle," Annie smiled as she walked over to the small settee in the parlor and sat down. "You are so good to me."

"As you have been to me!" Giselle responded, speaking the truth. The women had been there for each other numerous times over the years as they each raised a child without a father in the home. They made a point to take care of each other, but though they were in many always close as sisters, Giselle did not know the true root of Annie's heartache. For that, she had shared with no one.

Once they had gone, Annie tried to use the quiet time as Giselle had suggested—to relax. She selected a book from her shelf and turned the pages, but in no way could she be considered reading. After trying for fifteen minutes, she still had not digested one word. The only thing she could see before her was the golden glow of Erik's eyes, the soft texture of his hair tickling her fingertips with every flip of a page.

"This is ridiculous!" Annie huffed, tossing the book to the floor in irritation. "This is the opposite of relaxation!" Rising to her feet, Annie looked around her small apartment for something, anything, which might catch her interest, and take her mind off Erik, but she had spent ten years trying to do the same. She knew it was simply not possible. Grabbing her cloak, to protect against the chill evening air, Annie stepped outside her apartment door.

She considered going through Box 5 and descending the long winding steps that would lead to the underground chamber she had not visited in over a decade. She knew, however, that without the boat, she would have no way to cross the subterranean lake. Instead, she made her way out of the building and into the alleyway behind the building, being careful to stick to the shadows so as not to be noticed.

She hesitated as she stood before the stone wall she knew was really an entrance into her long abandoned past. _I should walk away_ , she thought. _I should leave, and pretend I never came here tonight._ But she knew she could not do that. Without knowing, she would never rest—always wondering why Erik had come home. Taking in a deep breath and setting her jaw, she quickly pressed the correct spot, refusing to spend one more moment staring at a wall when she knew that beyond it, there were answers.

The outer chamber was dark. She supposed she should have expected that, but when she shared this space with Erik, she was always greeted by the soft glow of a lit candle. Wishing that she had thought to bring a lantern, she continued on, hoping her memory of her former home's layout would not fail her.

As she continued on, holding her hands out in front of her, so that she would not accidentally walk into a wall, her eyes acclimated somewhat to the darkness. She was able to make out shapes and contours, painfully noting the large alcove where she and Erik had spent their nights, on the bed he had built with his own two hands. She swallowed hard as memories rushed back of the love they had made and the love she had squandered in that very room—of the nights she had invited him into her body all the while pushing away his heart. Oh, what she wouldn't give for the ability to turn back time. She would have admitted she loved him far sooner than she did. She would have turned to him in her grief instead of shoving him away. She would have been fully his…she would be his still.

Pushing the painful memories out of her mind, she continued on, past the smaller recess on the right where Meg had slept in Erik's handmade crib, past the little dining room where they took their meals, the parlor where they whiled away quiet evenings together. The sound of rushing water alerted her to the fact that she had reached the lakeshore when she saw a small circle of light bobbing on the water.

Annie felt her heart begin to clench as the light came closer and closer, revealing the shadowy outline of a man in a cape and a hat. She felt a strong desire to run—to leave this chamber and never return. She felt compelled to hide her face—to grovel on the ground and beg for forgiveness for the harsh words she had spoken when she had been so very dead inside. Except that she couldn't. Her feet were rooted firmly on the ground, unable to move—unable to take even one step—until she had seen the face for which she had yearned for so long. She had ached for this moment for more than ten years—she could not allow fear to keep it from her.

Once he had reached the shore, Annie watched in silence as Erik climbed out of the boat. He set his steering pole upon the ground and quietly looped the rigging around the makeshift dock, to keep the little vessel in place. Then, slowly, gracefully, he pulled himself to his full height, setting his jaw and straightening his shoulders before he directed his golden eyes to hers.

Annie gasped, as she felt the weight of the tension between them. Looking at Erik after all this time—it was the sweetest bliss. It was unmitigated terror. She wanted nothing more than to run to him and embrace him, thanking him for coming back to her, begging him with all her heart to stay this time. And yet, the detachment in his eyes, his aloof way of carrying himself compelled her to hold her place.

Feeling a sudden dryness in her throat, Annie parted her lips to say something—anything—that might be able to break through the glacial wall that stood between them, but the only word her lips would form was the one that had become an endless refrain, an unceasing prayer for the past ten years. "Erik…"

He seemed to bristle just a bit at the sound of her voice, his shoulders shaking visibly when she spoke. Still he pulled himself together and in an icy tone muttered, "Madame Giry."

Annie flinched at his use of her marriage name, his words striking a blow as truly as if he had used his fist. "You don't have to call me that, Erik," she muttered, hoping to put an end to the formality between them.

"Is it not your name?" Erik asked coolly.

"It is not _your_ name for me," Annie responded, imploring him to be kind.

For a moment, it seemed as if Erik were faltering, a shiver running through his entire body, hesitation clear in his eyes. But as soon as it came, the moment was gone, and his gaze hardened once again. "And yet, Madame," he mutterd, as he walked past her into his dwelling place, setting the lantern on a nearby table, "it is the only one that matters."

Annie's heart bled as she turned to watch him remove his gloves and hang his coat on the rack at the entry to the parlor. She never should have come here—never should have stayed. Obviously, there would be no reconciliation between them—he would not even call her by her first name. Still, she had come here for answers.

"You're here," she said, feeling like a fool for stating the obvious.

"So are you," Erik responded, taking a seat in the cushioned chair just inside the sitting room.

Realizing he had no plans to make this easy for her, Annie forced herself to continue. "How…how long have you been back?"

"Not long," Erik told her truthfully, crossing one long leg over the other. "But long enough to see the mess the managers have made of Charles's opera house. Perhaps a week…"

A week. Erik had been back seven whole days! "You did not come to me," Annie commented, swallowing hard as his admission of being back an entire week without once trying to contact her tore her heart to shreds.

"Why would I?" Erik snapped, a taint of vitriol seeping into his voice. "It is not as if _we_ have any ties. Your child and husband are your family. Not I."

"I have no husband," Annie said in a small, sad voice.

"You still wear his ring," Erik pointed out, his eyes falling to the plain band of gold that even now circled her finger.

 _As I still wear yours,_ Annie screamed inwardly, as she thought of the chain hanging around her neck. _Only I keep yours closer to my heart._

"Why then?" Annie pressed, her voice hollow, her eyes unable to look directly at him, for fear that he would see the agony lodged firmly in her heart. "Why did you come?"

"Did you imagine I came for you?" Erik asked her, leaning forward in his chair, his golden eyes blazing into hers.

"I…" Annie began, but her voice tailed off before she could complete her thought. _I hoped_ …she screamed within her mind, her cheeks turning a bright shade of red _. I dreamed._ But she could not make her lips form the words. "…I…," she floundered, unable to say what she had wanted to say since the day he left her.

"I came for the opera house," Erik snapped, thrusting himself backwards in his chair gripping its arms with his fingers as he clenched his jaw, his eyes not quite looking in her direction.

"For the opera house?" Annie asked, suddenly confused. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Even in the far flung corners of the earth, Madame, news of the Paris Opera House travels," Erik told her. "The incompetence of your managers is known far and wide. More seats empty than sold on any given night. The lead roles being filled by talentless hacks. Even the building falling into a state of disrepair. It is a disgrace!"

Annie was caught completely off guard by his words. "I admit," she said, shaking her head, "that I rarely agree with Moncharmin and Richard, but how is your presence here going to change things in any way?"

"You should know, Madame," Erik informed her, his voice dark and low, "I have my ways…"

Annie felt her heart begin to pound as she recalled some her favorite "ways" by which he had persuaded her in the past. "Erik, I…," she said, slightly breathless, her eyes trained on the ground, "I should go. I'm sorry…to have bothered you."

Annie forced her feet to begin to move, intent on making her way back through the home they had once shared.

"Madame Giry," Erik called, after she had taken only a few steps.

Annie instantly stopped and turned toward him. Had he changed his mind? Did he not want her to go? "Yes, Erik?" she asked, her hopeful heart pounding wildly in her chest.

"I will leave a letter tomorrow—in Box 5. Please see that it is delivered," he commanded.

"A letter?" Annie asked, not quite understanding. "To whom?"  
"It will say on the envelope," Erik told her. "And furthermore," he added, "from this point forward, you shall be my box keeper."

" _Your_ box keeper _?_ " Annie asked incredulously.

"Yes, _my_ box keeper," Erik repeated. "And as such, you will be the only one who is allowed to enter Box 5. Make it known that all others enter the box upon risk of great peril."

"Erik," Annie asked, his strange words confusing her, "I don't understand."

"You _will_ understand, Madame," Erik assured her. "Just as the managers will understand. From this point forward, the Opera Garnier belongs to the ghost." Annie felt a chill run down her spine as Erik let out a laugh—low and dark, "And _all_ here will learn to do the Phantom's bidding!"

 **AN: Well, Annie, Erik is home, but he's not quite the same! I think he's wearing his ghost persona rather nicely...**


	109. Chapter 109

CH 109

What was he doing? She was here—she had _come_ to him. He could tell that it had been difficult for her. She could barely look at him, and when she did—oh, how could he miss the yearning in her eyes? It was taking all his strength not to pull her into his arms and speak words of love, asking her—no, pleading with her—to have him back. He would do anything if she would just love him again. He would grovel at her feet—he would capture the moon. If only she would have him—if only she would love him.

But though his soul screamed out to her—his body aching at her nearness—somehow, he couldn't bring himself to do the things he'd dreamt of doing for the past decade. The pain she had delivered with her parting words so many years ago was a yawning chasm that separated them now, and though he wished it with all his might, Erik found that his heart was not brave enough to close the gap. And so, his passions came out cold, his affections as ridicule. Inwardly, he basked in her presence, and yet he kept her far enough away that he could not touch.

 _Never_ touch.

He panicked as he watched her begin to walk away. He concocted an excuse—some ridiculous way to keep her near, without admitting that he wanted her close. And then, as his heart shattered once again into a million sharp, deadly shards, he'd allowed her to go.

Only after she was gone, had he collapsed against the back of his chair, the tremors taking over him completely. "Annie," he sobbed, as he lifted a shaking hand to his head and raked it through his hair. "My Annie…." Oh, how he had longed to kiss her—to feel the softness of her lips melding against his—to feel the silken darkness of her ebony tresses engulf him, envelop him, as he lost himself in the heat of her embrace. "I'm sorry, Annie," he murmured under his breath. "Please come back," he begged. "Please love me…Annie."

But when she had been standing right in front of him, Erik could not even bring himself to speak that name—the name which, to him, meant love, happiness and all things good. No, to him she was no longer Annie. She was Madame Giry—a formidable ballet mistress, another man's wife. So far away, never to be reached.

 _Never_ touched.

"It is over now," Erik growled, shooting out of his chair as he began to pace the floor. "I did not come for her…" he muttered, raking his fingers through his disheveled hair as he continued his circuitous route. "It was for the opera house. It was for Charles. It was for…"

 _Annie,_ his wicked soul reminded him. _Of course, it was for her. You can lie to yourself all you want but you will never be rid of your love for her…_

"I did not come for her!" Erik bellowed, his scream echoing loudly off the walls of his subterranean home.

 _Yes, you did…_ that voice persisted. _Everything you ever do is for her…Everything is for…_

"Christine," Erik said out loud, thoughts of the young soprano giving him a moment's clarity—a temporary respite from the clamor in his mind. Erik found himself walking back to the boat, and using the pole to steer himself back across the lake—away from the madness; away from the voices that would not relent.

 _You came here for her…. You came here for Annie._

* * *

Christine was not in the chapel when Erik arrived. Of course, there was no reason that she would be there, since they had already had their lesson, and she had done quite well. And yet, Erik needed to see her—he needed to focus on something other than the discord between heart and soul that Annie's visit had created within him.

He wandered the tunnels of the opera house, willing his mind to quiet, begging his heart to be still, but to no avail. He had to stop thinking of Annie, but to do that, he required Christine. Her voice would restore the Garnier to its former greatness, lifting music up high and setting it once again firmly upon its throne. It was on that that he had to focus. No more foolish romantic dreams or ridiculous fantasies. Christine had to be his reason—his only reason. There was simply no other way.

Finally, in the dormitories, he found her. She, along with the other girls, were lying asleep on their cots, a full day of rehearsals having exhausted them completely. "Christine," Erik whispered into her ear only, using the ventriloquist's trick that had served him so well in the past. He saw his pupil's eyes move slightly behind her closed lids, but still she slept, gathering rest for the day ahead. Not wishing to wake the others, Erik called to her softly yet again. "Chrisssss tiiiiine," he almost sang her name in his attempt to gently rouse her from her slumber. Her eyes still closed, a sigh escaped her delicate lips as Erik saw them curl into a sweet smile.

Warmth filled his heart as he recalled other mornings…another exquisite smile… as his lips traced a fluttery trail down the curve of her neck.

 _"_ _Erik…," she purred her eyes never opening as an expression of rapture spread over her face._

 _"_ _Mmmmmm," he hummed in return, his mouth having found far greater purpose than speaking as he kissed the rosy peaks of her full, round breasts._

 _"_ _Oh...Erik," she moaned again, her arms reaching up to pull him closer, her fingers tangling in his hair._

 _Erik shifted so that he was lying above her, his lower body resting in the cradle her legs had created for him. Placing a hand on either side of her head to steady himself, Erik pushed inside her with one fluid thrust, causing Annie to finally, with a gasp, open her eyes._

 _"_ _Good morning," he murmured huskily, a rakish smile on his lips as he gazed down on his lover, an errant strand of hair spilling forward to fall in front of his eyes._

 _"_ _It is now," Annie sighed, pressing her pelvis forward to take him even deeper inside her, as she pulled his face to hers for a kiss._

 _"_ _What were you dreaming about so sweetly, Annie?"_ _he whispered into her lips._

 _"_ _You, Erik," she sighed, her eyes fluttering closed once again, as she reveled in their joining. "But you are proving that my dreams are even sweeter when I'm awake…"_

"Christine!" he said quite sharply into her ear, forcing away the memory as he clung to his singular purpose of making the opera house great again.

"Angel!" Christine gasped, sitting straight up on her cot, pulling the blankets tightly over her chest. "Is that you?"

"Yes, Christine," Erik responded. "It is me."

"I thought I heard you singing…" she said, smiling once again.

"Then why, Christine," Erik asked, irritation slipping into his voice, "did you not answer?"

"Forgive me, Angel," Christine implored, penitently. "It seemed but a dream."

 _A dream_ , Erik thought to himself. _More like a nightmare…_

"It was no dream, child," Erik told her, all business now. "Get up, and meet me in the chapel."

"But Angel, I…" Christine responded, her eyes narrowed in confusion. "I thought we had concluded tonight's lesson…"

"Do you question your angel?" Erik growled, perhaps a bit more loudly than he should have, as was evident when one of ballerinas woke up.

"Christine?" she asked, rubbing her eyes. "Christine, is something the matter?"

"The chapel!" Erik whispered for Christine's ears only. "Now!"

"No, Clara," Christine said to her roommate, rising from her cot and pulling on her dressing gown, "I am only feeling a little wakeful. I'm going to go to the chapel for a bit…"

"As much time as you spend in the chapel, Christine," the tired dancer responded, "You'll be a nun one day—not a dancer…"

"Go back to sleep, Clara," Erik heard Christine say, as he closed the panel behind the dormitory wall. "Pretend that this was just a dream."

* * *

Annie turned the key in the lock and took in a deep breath as she pushed open the door to Box 5. It had been years—so many years—since she had last found herself inside this small compartment that at one time had opened up the door to an entirely new world. A world of darkness filled with such light. A world of shadows filled with beauty. A world of secrets filled with love—filled with Erik.

She had spent a sleepless night, tossing and turning on the settee, unable to find any rest. The darkness was illuminated by the harsh glow of his golden eyes, and his imagined gaze upon her would not let her find peace. _You will be my box keeper,_ he had said. What a strange tie to have to Erik after all these years. Lover she had hoped for. Enemy she had nearly expected. But box keeper? Messenger? Never had she anticipated such an odd request, yet the chilling command in his voice had made refusal impossible. So here she stood, surrounded by crimson and gold, enclosed in Erik's box once more.

Things were much the same as they had been over ten years ago when she had last visited. A small mirror still hung above a tiny shelf—one which she had once been lifted upon in the heat of passion, as she offered herself to the man she loved. "He didn't want me then," she thought as she ran her fingers along the cool wood, remembering his protests about not wishing to take her virginity in the opera's box. He relented only when she practically begged him to make love to her. How convenient it had been when the wall gave way, ending, for a time, all thought of carnal pleasures.

 _He doesn't want me now either_ the thought came to her unbidden. He had been in Paris a week and he had never come to her. She had dreamed nightly for years of running into his arms the moment she next saw him—of declaring her love and her sorrow—of begging him to take her back. But he had spent a week puttering around the opera house, spying on the managers and causing trouble with Carlotta, with no urgency of seeing her again.

 _Did you imagine that I came back for you?_ He'd asked her. Truly, she had, but she could see now that it had been folly. It was evident that he no longer cared…

Drawing in a deep breath, Annie moved further into the box, her eyes noting the heavy scarlet curtain that was draped at the front. _There was a time when his desire for me had caused him to loose the curtain from its moorings,_ she thought, grasping the lush velvet between her fingers, _causing it to fall, crashing to the floor. Oh, how I chided him for his passions—for his lack of self-control,_ she fought back tears that had gathered in her eyes. _I should have been so grateful—for now his desires are only for the good of the opera house. No longer me. Never me…_

Annie had lowered her head, still trying to control her turbulent emotions, when she saw it. A cream-colored envelope with the name _Messieurs Moncharmin and Richard_ written in a familiar black scrawl across the front. Here was his note—the letter which he intended her to deliver.

Swallowing hard, she lifted the missive in her hand, her fingertips tracing the black letters on the front. She considered for a moment what it would mean for her to deliver this letter to her employer. She had been connected with the ghost once before—at least in the mind of Claude Moncharmin. Had it not been for Giles's intervention, she might very well have lost her job. To this day, Moncharmin still viewed her a bit mistrustfully, never fully believing that she'd had nothing to do with O.G.'s previous mischief.

And now, Erik was asking her to rekindle those old connections in the minds of her manager—to be his messenger—his box keeper—thereby intimately involving her in whatever actions he had planned. She could not afford to lose her position at the opera house. She had a daughter to think about, and Giselle and Alain relied heavily on her for their own income as well. However, she knew the managers would be hard pressed to replace her, since the ballet was still the one bright spot on a rather tarnished reputation. And patrons who had stayed on with the Opera Garnier after Giles's death would not take kindly to his widow being dismissed.

Tucking the letter into her skirts, she left the box to perform her duty. She knew had no choice. For though she might have had the ability to stand up to a true ghost, it was Erik who had demanded she do this—and against Erik, Annie was powerless.

* * *

 _Greetings Messieurs Moncharmin and Richard,_

 _As you have undoubtedly surmised, I have returned to my opera house—and to my great dismay—it is clear that you have allowed this great palais des arts to fall from the position of glory it once held. The building has spiraled into disrepair, the audience numbers are dwindling, and worst of all, the talent you employ is severely lacking. It is plain that I have many improvements to make in order to restore Charles Garnier's masterpiece to its proper splendor._

 _The first improvement that will be made is the removal of La Carlotta Giudicelli from her position as lead soprano and the instatement of a vocalist more suited to sing upon the stage. Since you have proven yourselves to have no judgment when it comes to talent, I understand that you might find it a daunting task to find a qualified replacement so close to tomorrow night's opening. Therefore, I have tirelessly taken it upon myself to train your new Prima Donna, and she is ready to take the position. How convenient for you that she is already a member of your company._

 _Miss Christine Dáae will be performing the role of The Queen of the Night, effective immediately. As for La Carlotta, I have no use for her on the stage, but I do believe the stable hand could use some help mucking out the stalls._

 _As noted above, gentlemen, this is only the first in a list of improvements I have planned for the opera house. As you have left me with much work to do, I will be requiring an office, a messenger, and, of course, a salary. The office will be Box 5—no one shall here-to-fore be allowed in it at any time—except, of course, for my messenger, Antoinette Giry. Madame Giry has proven herself to be a devoted and trustworthy employee—as is evidenced by the level of excellence her corps displays. She is, therefore, the only one I will trust with my communiqué._

 _My salary will be 20,000 francs a month, and I will accept my first payment at the end of the week. Madame Giry is instructed to leave it in my Box._

 _Gentlemen, I advise you to take my demands quite seriously. Disobey me at your great peril._

 _Sincerely Yours,_

 _O.G._

Annie could barely breathe as she heard the letter draw to a close. What on earth was Erik thinking? Sending a letter such as this one was sheer madness—and he had most unequivocally dragged her into it, using her name as his messenger. What was she to do? What on _earth_ did Erik expect her to do?

"Madame Giry!" Moncharmin stared up at her, the letter still in his hand, absolutely dumbfounded by what he had just read. "Would you care to explain… _this_?" he asked giving the paper in his hand a little shake.

Staring straight ahead of her, not daring to look into the man's eyes, she responded, "I rather think the letter did a fine job explaining itself."

"How _dare_ you bring this…this… _gibberish_ in here?" Moncharmin demanded, his face turning a bright beet red in his anger. "How dare you conspire with this mad man?"

"I did not conspire, Monsieur," Annie said quietly, still not looking up. "I merely found the envelope in Box 5 and delivered it, as I was instructed."

"What were you doing in Box 5 in the first place, Madame?" Richard asked, trying to remain calm as he wrapped his mind about this strange turn of events.

"I…" Annie took in a deep breath to try to steady her nerves. "I was called there, sir."

"By whom?" Moncharmin spat.

"By the ghost, sir," Annie answered, her voice emotionless and flat.

"I thought you swore," Moncharmin said, trying to be menacing as he leaned across his desk to bring his face very close to hers, "that there was no ghost!"

Finally looking up and meeting his eyes, there was a stony resolve in her gaze when she told him, "Obviously, I was mistaken."

"Christine Dáae, hmmm?" Monsieur Richard took over for his flabbergasted colleague. "Did you know of her ability to sing?"

"Well, sir, her father played the violin," Annie responded, speaking to Richard, but turned her gaze once more to Moncharmin. "Isn't that almost the same thing?"

"This is an absolute outrage!" Moncharmin blurted, spittle flying out of his mouth as he began to pace the floor of his office. "An affront to decency! A _salary_ , he demands! A private box! It is extortion plain and simple! And we shall not stand for it! And you can tell your little ballet _rat_ ," Moncharmin paused to point at Annie, "that she will not be replacing the great La Carlotta on the stage."

"Now, Claude," Richard interjected, "Carlotta does seem to be struggling a bit with her voice lately… perhaps we should listen to this Christine girl sing."

"Yes," Annie added, irritated now by Moncharmin's vitriolic display, "You know…like you watched her dance before placing her in my corps…"

"Nonsense!" Moncharmin growled, slamming his hand against his desk. "We will not be manipulated! La Carlotta has given us many years of service—and she is a favorite of Philippe deChagny!"

"Does he run the opera house these days?" Annie asked.

"We run the opera house, Madame!" Moncharmin countered. "Not the Comté and certainly not your ghost! You can tell him, by the way, that La Carlotta will be singing Queen of the Night, and that this better be the last we hear of him!"

"Or else?" Annie asked, eyebrows raised.

"Or else what, Madame?" Moncharmin asked, flustered.

"You said this better be the last time you hear from the ghost," Annie pressed, curious to hear what threat he would make, "I was simply inquiring as to the consequences if this is not the last time."

"Or else," Monharmin spat in irritation, "it will be the last we see of his little messenger!" With great dramatic flair, the manager stalked out his office door, only to return a moment later, after remembering that they had been, after all, in _his_ office. "Get out!" he sputtered, his embarrassment coloring his cheeks.

As Annie and Monsieur Richard gathered themselves to leave the room, the sound of ghostly laughter suddenly surrounded them.  
"Disobey me at your great peril," a spectral voice resounded, as the laughter continued on and on.

 **AN: Oh, Erik, you poor confused fool! UGH! If only you had told Annie what you were truly feeling... Sigh... But no, instead, you are mucking things up around the opera house! But, you're doing it in such a fun way, we can hardly complain...**


	110. Chapter 110

CH 110

The atmosphere in the opera house was absolutely electric. It was opening night, and everywhere one looked, something was happening. Ballerinas were tittering around backstage, stretching, gossiping and helping each other with their makeup. The musicians were giving their instruments a final tune. And Signor Piangi was pacing back and forth, running scales. The grand foyer was beginning to fill up with guests for the evening's performance, the occasional loud peal of laughter adding to the general din of chaos in the auditorium.

Annie stood at the edge of it all, making certain her dancers were progressing in their preparations for the stage. As was her custom, she was dressed all in black, her face a stony façade that revealed nothing of her inner turmoil. She had a very real sense of foreboding about the evening's performance. For the first time in years, she was stricken by nerves. Erik's message to the opera house had, of course, been completely disregarded by the ridiculously incompetent Claude Moncharmin and the only slightly more sensible Monsieur Richard. Of course, it had been—for who would believe in a ghost? Box 5 had been prepared—by Moncharmin himself—for the Comté and his brother, and Carlotta was still set to play the lead.

Annie knew, however, that Erik's words were not to be taken lightly. The Palais Garnier had always held a special place in his heart, since it had been constructed by his dear friend and mentor Charles, and Erik had come back with a mission. He had taken it upon himself to restore the opera house to its former glory by any means necessary, and Annie knew that when Erik wanted something, he would stop at nothing to get it. This was not a ghost to be trifled with.

It had come as some surprise to her, to hear Christine named as the object of his desire—the one he wanted to have replace Carlotta. She had no idea he was even aware of the mousy little dancer's existence. When Annie had pulled Christine aside that afternoon at rehearsal, asking her what she knew of the letter, the girl had grown quite nervous.

"Please, Madame," she implored, her eyes cast down at the floor. "I'm not supposed to talk about it."

"Who told you that?" Annie prodded, holding her baton with a tighter grip.

"My angel," Christine blurted. Her eyes growing wide, as she realized that she had just done the very thing she had been prohibited to do, she immediately amended her response, "My teacher."

Annie's jaw setting and her nostrils flaring wide, she asked, "Who is your teacher?"

"I…," Christine faltered, squirming uncomfortable under her mistress's withering gaze. "I do not know his name. I only call him Angel."

"I see," Annie nodded. "And where do you meet with your teacher?" she pressed.

"Madame," Christine pleaded, "I already told you, I am not supposed to say…"

"Christine," Annie said firmly, "You are my charge. Therefore, it is my responsibility to know everyone with whom you come in contact and everywhere that you go. Now I ask again. Where do you meet with your teacher?"

"I…" Christine began, her shoulders slumped, looking rather defeated. "I hear his voice, Madame. M…mostly…in the chapel."

"Of course," Annie quipped, forcing her eyes not to roll. "Where else would you meet with an angel?"

"Oh please, Madame, don't be mad….," Christine begged. "I did not mean to offend you."

" _You_ did not offend me, Christine," Annie assured her, even as the tension was building up inside her. Then taking a deep breath, she pressed, "But, you said you hear his voice. What do you mean by that?"

"It is just as I said, Madame," Christine answered, swallowing hard against the dryness in her throat. "He…he speaks to me, but I do not see him. His spirit—his _voice_ —is all around me."

"Have you never _seen_ him?" Annie pressed. "Have you never been in the same room with him? Face to face?"

"Well, no, Madame," Christine shook her head, confused. "But then again, I did not think it was possible to look upon an angel's face."

Annie used her baton to keep her steady as she felt her head begin to spin, her heart beating rapidly in her chest. If only the child truly knew of which she spoke. For truly it was not an angelic appearance that caused Erik to keep his face hidden—but rather his belief that his countenance was akin to the devil himself. "Thank you, Christine," she nodded, curtly, letting her pupil know that she was dismissed, "that is all."

"Yes, Madame," Christine curtseyed, before quickly rejoining the rest of the dancers.

"What are you thinking, Erik?" Annie had demanded after stalking through the underground rooms, following the intermittent strains of Erik's violin. She'd found him in the sitting room, instrument balanced on his lap, leaning over to make notations on a messy stack of papers that sat on a table to the side of the settee.

"Ah," Erik said, a tight smile spreading across his lips as he lifted his head to look at her. "My messenger. Since I did not summon you, I must assume you have word from the managers?"

"Stop Erik!" Annie shouted, cutting him off as she felt her brain were about to explode. "Stop your arrogant words and stop your deplorable behavior! Neither becomes you!"

"Deplorable behavior?" Erik asked his golden eyes widening in mock surprise a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "What could you possibly mean?"

"Making ridiculous demands to the managers," she began, listing off his series of offenses, "dragging _my_ name into it…"

"Oh, come now, Madame," Erik interjected, chuckling, "You had a few choice words for the managers yourself. And I heard every one of them. You know I was listening—I even chimed in there at the end..."

"Yes, you did!" Annie hissed. "I don't know how you justify this, Erik. Manipulating a shy young girl. Embroiling her into your schemes. How could you exploit her weaknesses like that?"

"Would it have been better?" Erik asked, rising from his seat and taking a step in Annie's direction, "To allow her to wallow in the Corps du Ballet just because—oh, how did you put it to the managers—her father played the violin and it's the same thing? You and I both know she had no aptitude as a dancer."

"She was improving!" Annie protested.

"Not enough, and you know it!" Erik insisted. "Besides, she never would have made any real contributions to the corps. She would have spent her career as simply part of the line. As prima donna, she will bring Paris to its knees."

"Since, as you have said, you were listening to my conversation with the managers," Annie retorted, "you know she will not _be_ prima donna."

"She will be," Erik countered calmly. "I will see to it."

"How?" Annie demanded. "With more notes? Do you really think you're going to be able to manipulate Moncharmin and Richard the way you're manipulating Christine? For heaven's sake, Erik, she calls you Angel!"

"As you did once!" Erik snapped, closing the distance between them.

Annie could make no response—she could barely breathe—as she felt him so near. All she could do was continue to stare into those fiery golden eyes.

"Is that what truly upsets you?" Erik continued, his voice softer now, but just as deadly. "That there is another girl who calls me by the name that you once did?"

"N…no…" Annie nearly sobbed, Erik's proximity taking all control of her emotions.

"Does it bother you that that _very_ beautiful, shy, young girl sees in me a worth that you could _not_ see?"

"I saw you, Erik," Annie breathed, her entire body trembling now, a war raging wildly within her. She wanted to scream at Erik. To throttle him. And yet, there was nothing she wanted more than to hold him—to kiss him. "I…s…saw…" his lips were _so_ close to hers. All she had to do was close her eyes and lift her head…. "all of you…," she finished on a sigh, as her lids lowered and her hand reached up to cup his cheek.

When her fingers made the first, feathery contact with his heated skin, Annie felt Erik flinch away.

"And you left me…" he hissed.

Annie opened her eyes to see that Erik had turned away, showing his back to her and putting a small distance between them. Her gaze then moved to her own hand, still perched where it had been to touch his face. Her fingers were still curled—the tips still tingling from their fleeting brush against his flesh.

"Erik…" Annie began, allowing her hand to fall limply to her side.

"Christine is my hope now," Erik declared dispassionately, not facing her. "She is the answer. She will fulfill all my dreams."

Annie knew that he meant dreams for the opera house. She understood that he expected Christine to help return the Garnier to its true greatness. Still, however, to hear him speak those words cut her to the core. "That is a lot to lay, on her shoulders." Annie said quietly, breathing in to slowly gather her senses. "She is but a young girl."

"A young girl…" Erik turned swiftly and seemed to catch his breath. For a time, he was silent, as he gazed upon Annie—just looking at her, though his eyes seemed worlds away. She saw what seemed like a thousand emotions parade across his face, and there was a split second when Annie was sure he was going to run to her—and end this season of madness. But as if he were suddenly startled out of a dream, the moment was over almost before it had begun. "Who is everything," Erik completed his thought, and Annie felt her shoulders sag and the breath go out of her body. "Christine is everything. And she must be my focal point."

The room was silent for a moment, as Erik fought for what to say next and Annie struggled to breathe. The first to recover, Erik crossed over back to his settee, and sat down once again with his violin. Lifting the instrument to his chin, he said calmly, "Madame Giry, while it is imperative that we communicate—since you are to be my messenger—in the future, wait for my correspondences in Box 5. And if you ever have anything to say to me, you may place a letter there in return. There is no need for you to visit my private quarters again. After all, ours is merely a business arrangement."

"I…I understand, Erik," Annie responded, her spirit completely deflated.

"Good day, Madame Giry," he replied, pulling his bow across the strings of the violin.

For a moment, Annie was frozen in her spot, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to believe that her relationship with Erik had come to this. Cold. Barren. Barely civil. Once the fires of passion had raged wildly between them anytime they were in the same room—the gentle warmth of love and affection, comforting them throughout countless long nights. But now there was nothing. _Nothing_ there but the emptiness to which she had become accustomed.

As Erik began to play an unfamiliar melody, Annie forced her leaden feet to move. Heavy steps carried her, once again, to the alley door, tears gathering, unbidden, in her eyes as she realized how irrevocably she had lost him. Erik had composed a new tune.

* * *

Carlotta pursed her lips and blew herself a kiss as she gazed into her full-length mirror. "Perfection!" she sighed, taking in her costumed appearance. Her long midnight blue gown fell to the floor, black and silver sequins catching the light and giving her an otherworldly glow. Knowing that she was more than ready to dazzle a new audience on the stage, she turned to walk through the door.

"What's this?" she asked, something on her vanity catching her eye.

She walked quickly over to the dressing table, where a long flat box, tied with a black ribbon lay, a small card attached. She had not noticed the package when she had been applying her makeup, but she supposed that could have been because she was focused on her task. Reaching down, she lifted the note in her hand.

 _With best regards for a wonderful performance._

 _An Admirer_

Carlotta could not suppress a smile. She was fairly certain she knew exactly who that admirer was. Young Philippe deChagny had taken quite a shine to her, even having taken her out for an expensive lunch the pervious afternoon, before someone had played that awful prank with her roses. Perhaps he was trying to ingratiate himself to her even more?

Carlotta untied the ribbon and lifted the top from the box. Chocolates! How delightful!

"That silly boy," Carlotta clucked her tongue. "He should know that it is terrible to eat just before you are supposed to sing. Still…" she smiled, gazing down at the small candies in the box before her. "I suppose one won't hurt."

Carlotta selected one of the chocolates from the box and quickly popped it between her lips. Immediately a rich burst of sweetness exploded in her mouth. "Mmmmmm," she moaned, reaching for another. "These are delicious! I must have at least one more."

Carlotta quickly ate two, then three more of the delectable treats, until she felt herself suddenly feeling woozy.

"I should…" she whispered, feeling her eyes begin to close, "I should just sit down here for a minute." Pulling out her chair, she set herself down, placing the box of chocolates in front of her. "I…" she muttered, popping one last chocolate in her mouth, "just need to rest…for…a minute…." And placing her arms on the vanity table, she set her head atop of them, and drifted off to sleep.

After a moment, the full-length mirror slid aside, and a black clad figure emerged from the shadows. Glancing down at the now snoring diva, a wicked smirk grew on Erik's face. "Sweet dreams, Carlotta. Now it truly will be a wonderful performance!" he chuckled as he crossed to the door and locked it, then began to barricade it with a heap of the soprano's furniture and other belongings. When he was done, and confident that no one was getting in or out of that room without wasting a major amount of time and effort, Erik walked back over to Carlotta. Bending low, to whisper in her ear, he muttered, "I never said _who_ it was that I admired." And with a full belly laugh, Erik made his way back out into the tunnels, carrying the remaining chocolates under his arm.

* * *

Annie's trepidation would not fade, even as the players took their places in the wings. It was minutes before the scheduled start of the show, and everyone was more than ready to get out on the stage and show Paris what they had been working toward for so long. Except, of course, for their lead soprano.

"Where _is_ she?" Richard asked, his hands placed firmly on his hips.

"We don't know…"

"We haven't heard from her…"

"I haven't seen her all day…" several cast members answered at once.

Richard huffed and looked around the company. There was no understudy for this role.

"Buquet!" Richard barked, summoning the slovenly stagehand.

"Yes, Monsieur?" he asked, his breath slightly laced with alcohol.

"Go to Signora Giudicelli's dressing room," he demanded. "Tell her she has a full house waiting!"

"Yes, sir," Buquet nodded, making his way out of the backstage area.

"What are we going to do, sir, if Carlotta cannot be found?" one of the younger chorus girls asked nervously.

Shaking his head, and sighing in disgust, Richard threw up his hands, "I suppose we'll have to cancel the performance. We have no one else who could sing the role."

"Yes, we do!" came the voice of little Meg Giry, her blond curls bouncing in her excitement.

"Who?" Richard asked, all eyes instantly turning to the little blonde dancer.

"Christine!" Meg blurted.

"Oh!" Christine exclaimed, her face blanching white. "No."

Richard looked over at Christine, and said, "You know, your name was mentioned to us as a possible replacement for Carlotta, should there ever be a need."

"Oh no, sir," Christine shook her head wildly, her eyes wide with terror. "I am not ready…"

"Yes, you are!" Meg insisted. "I heard you singing, the day you were late for practice. You sounded magnificent!"

"No, but I…" Christine was shaking now, wishing there weren't so many people staring at her—wishing her angel would come and whisk her away from here.

"Christine," Annie said somberly, stepping forth out of the shadows and putting a steadying hand on the girl's shoulder. "I believe you are capable of singing it."

Christine looked up and met her teacher's stalwart gaze.

"But Madame," Christine pleaded, "I am not ready."

Leaning in to offer a hug, Annie whispered in her ear, "Your angel says you are."

Christine pulled back and gazed into Annie's dark eyes with shock.

"My… _angel_?" she gasped in surprise. "You hear him too?"

Annie nodded silently, as she gave Christine a knowing look.

Still dumbfounded, Christine stared at Annie—unable to believe that her ballet mistress had heard her very own private angel. That meant he must be real. He _must_ be!

"Miss Dáae," Richard barked with impatience. "Do you know the role or not?"

"Y…yes, sir. I do." Christine admitted, shakily.

"Then change your costume and get out there!" he ordered. "The performance is already late!"

"Yes sir!" Christine curtseyed, and with a glance toward Annie, ran back to the dressing rooms.

* * *

"I assure you, Messieurs," Moncharmin desperately tried to smooth things over with Philippe and Raoul deChagny as they settled themselves into Box 3—the manager's box. "I don't have any idea why Box 5 appears to be locked from the inside. We will have maintenance working on it tomorrow and you should have your seats back in no time."

"See to it that we do," Philippe said flatly, gazing from the stage, to his pocket watch and back again.

"It's no real bother, Monsieur Moncharmin," young Raoul countered. "We'll still get to see the opera," he added with a smile.

" _If_ it ever starts," Philippe quipped, closing his watch. "It's already ten minutes late."

"What's going on down there!" Moncharmin muttered under his breath as the elder of the deChagny brothers shook his head.

Finally, the curtains opened, and the show went on as planned. The manager's blood pressure was beginning to stabilize, but when the Queen of the Night first entered the stage, his heart dropped.

"What is the meaning of this?" Philippe demanded surprised to see a mousy young girl in the role, instead of the voluptuous Carlotta.

"I…" Moncharmin responded, flabbergasted, "I have no idea…"

"Is that…" Raoul asked in shock, leaning forward to try to get a better look. "Is that Christine?"

"Who?" Philippe asked, his eyebrows knit together in consternation.

"Christine Dáae," Raoul repeated again, his eyes never leaving the stage.

"The violinist's daughter?" Philippe asked.

"Yes," Raoul affirmed. "Don't you remember when she used to visit with her father when we were younger? A few times we even went out to Sweden to visit them."

"Ah yes…" Philippe recalled. "Isn't that when you made a fool of yourself jumping into the sea after her scarf or something like that?"

"Yes," Raoul nodded, a smile spreading across his face. "Yes, I did."

"As if she couldn't just get another scarf!" Philippe muttered under his breath.

"Her father had given her that scarf," Raoul informed him. "It was her favorite."

"Yes, well," Philippe rolled his eyes, as he rose from his seat, "be that as it may, I'm going to see what is keeping La Carlotta. She should be singing that role."

"I'll come with you," Moncharmin leapt to his feet as well.

"Farewell, gentlemen," Raoul responded. "I'm going to stay right here."

Turning his full attention once again to the stage, Raoul's heat thrilled as he watched Christine's performance. He could hardly believe this was the little girl with whom he used to play, and share ghost stories in the dark. _You've changed so much_ , _Little Lotte,_ he thought, as he remembered the days of her stepping on his toes when they would dance at official parties. He had not always been very outwardly kind to her, but he'd always enjoyed her company. And now…now… "My God," he whispered to himself. "She's _beaufitul_!"

 **AN: Oh dear. Erik's plan is afoot-but based on the young Vicomté's reaction to Christine, I'm afraid it might backfire...**


	111. Chapter 111

CH 111

When Moncharmin and the Comté arrived at Carlotta's dressing room, they found Josef Buquet standing outside the door.

"Well?" Moncharmin demanded, "where _is_ she?"

"I've been knocking sir," Buquet responded, "but she ain't answering. And the door's locked."

"Get out of my way," Moncharmin clucked his tongue as he shoved the larger man to the

side. "Signora," the manager called as he knocked on the soprano's door. It was not beyond Carlotta to be a few minutes late for a performance—after all, what diva doesn't love to keep people waiting? However, she had not even arrived backstage well after the show had started, and _that_ was quite unlike her. Above all, she _loved_ the crowd's attention. It would never be her intention to have the show go on without her. "Signora Giudicelli!" Moncharmin called again, jiggling the doorknob when the soprano made no answer. "It's locked," he said, turning to Philippe.

"It's like there's an echo…" Buquet commented, arms folded firmly across his chest.

"Let me try," Philippe sighed in disgust, practically pushing Moncharmin out of his way. With a commanding knock at the door, he called, "Carlotta! Carlotta, it's Philippe. Let me in!"

The only response came in the form of a soft sigh, followed by a faint rumble.

"Is she…" Moncharmin asked, turning to Philippe in shock.

Buquet let out a hearty chuckle. _"Snoring_! Your prima donna is snoring. Probably tied one on before the show to calm 'er nerves…"

As Moncharmin glared at the stage hand, attempting to muster up an intelligent response, but in reality, doing little more than sputtering, Philippe finally lost all patience.

"Dammit, Claude!" he snapped, "Don't you have a key?"

"Oh!" Moncharmin responded, reaching into his pocket. "Yes." Coughing to cover up his embarrassment, he added, "The key."

The bumbling manager pushed the key into the hole by the knob and turned. The lock released, clear as day, but still, the door would not budge. "It's…stuck," he exclaimed.

"This is ridiculous," Philippe muttered, as he took a few steps away from the door and ran against it, hitting it hard with his shoulder. They heard a noise as if furniture were scraping against the floor, as the door gave way only a couple of inches.

"Carlotta!" Philippe called again. "Carlotta, are you in there?"

"Mmmmmm…" came a muffled sound from inside the room.

"Signora Giudicelli," Moncharmin called. "We are all waiting for you! The opera has started."

"The opera…?" came a groggy reply, followed by a sharp gasp.

"Carlotta!" Philippe called again, trying to heft the door open a bit more with his shoulder, but he was of no avail. "What's wrong? What is it? Let us in, for heaven's sake!"

"I can't…" was her only response. "I'm trapped.

"Well," Buquet chuckled quietly, earning himself a glare from Moncharmin, "Perhaps the ghost is back after all…"

* * *

Erik's heart pounded in his chest, as he watched the crowd rise to its feet in a cacophony of applause. Christine's performance was nothing short of triumphant! She had appeared a bit nervous upon first taking the stage, but as the performance continued, her confidence grew, until her voice soared effortlessly to the ponderous heights demanded by one of Mozart's most difficult pieces. She had been nothing short of perfection—and Erik was moved to tears as he'd gazed down upon the young prima donna.

He knew that there could be no possible turning back now for Christine. She had shown Paris what a true soprano could do, and even those fools Richard and Moncharmin were bound to recognize actual talent when it had been so irrefutably presented before them. At the very least, they would notice the rise in sales, as Erik was certain many in attendance would flock to the box office for tickets to see the exquisite songstress in a repeat performance.

"Bellissima!" Erik murmured, as Christine curtseyed to the crowd, sending his whisper directly to her ear to be certain she would hear it above the crowd's roar. Erik gasped as she lifted her head at the sound of his voice, the most radiant smile he had ever seen spreading across her face.

All at once, his heart hurtled back to the first time he had sent his praise across this crowded auditorium. It had been a night, much like this one, and the smile with which he had been rewarded had truly taken his breath away. It had been a night of joy, and a night of sorrow—a night of firsts and of lasts. _I love you, my Wild Dancing Rose,_ he'd whispered, and had seen tears form in his angel's eyes—tears he would later kiss away, as he held her tenderly in his arms.

"I loved you…" he whispered, in memory of that night, as the ballet corps, led by

their mistress—all in black—took the stage. He watched as their formidable leader held her arm out toward the girls, nodding approvingly as the dancers took their bow. The way her eyes darted quickly up to Box 5 was almost imperceptible, but Erik saw, and felt his heart clench in response. "I love…"

Shutting his eyes against the emotions that threatened to overwhelm, he shook his head. "Christine," he reminded himself. "I must focus on Christine." And pushing away the useless memories, Erik slipped into the tunnels behind Box 5.

* * *

Christine stared at herself in the vanity's mirror, hardly believing what had just happened. It was not her usual timid face that stared back at her—no, she was looking upon the countenance of the fiercely powerful Queen of the Night. Except that only a few minutes before, she _was_ the queen!

She had never expected to step into the role on this—opening night! Of course, her angel had said that she would be singing the lead, but she did not think it would be this night of all nights. She had only joined the Palais Garnier a little over a week ago—and as a dancer! How could she have anticipated moving into the prima donna role so quickly?

But Madame had encouraged her—who would have thought that Madame knew of her angel!—and the whispered _bellissima_ she heard as she took her bow told her that her teacher had been well pleased. It had been such an amazing night—full of unexpected challenges and triumphs, that Christine could hardly take all of them in.

Yet, when a knock sounded on her door, it would bring her still another unexpected surprise.

"Come in," she called, still staring at the glittery makeup on her face, trying to gather her emotions about the night that had just passed. She heard the door quietly creak open, the sound from the hall momentarily becoming louder, and then once again fading as she heard a gentle call, "Little Lotte?"

Christine gasped in surprise. There was only one person yet living who knew of that nickname. Her eyes widened as she saw a vaguely familiar reflection gazing upon her in the mirror's glass. Spinning around to confirm her visitor's identity, she leapt to her feet, shrieking, "Raoul!"

"You remembered!" he chuckled as he quickly wrapped an arm around her, keeping his other one tucked behind his back as he hugged his old friend close.

"How could I forget!?" she responded with a final squeeze before pulling away to gaze at the sweet face that had been gone from her life for far too long.

"I brought you these," Raoul smiled as he revealed the large bouquet of roses he had been hiding behind his back.

"Oh," Christine giggled, taking them and immediately bringing the fragrant blooms to her face. "Thank you."

"You were absolutely magnificent, Christine!" Raoul told her. "I could not believe that was my dear old friend on the stage!"

"Believe me, Raoul," Christine answered. "Neither could I! It was all so unexpected—so _fast_! I was supposed to be dancing in the corps tonight. But then Carlotta went missing and Little Meg told everyone I could sing the part and Madame encouraged me to try… And before I knew it, there I was—on stage, in costume, and singing Mozart's glorious music."

"I never would have known you were not intended to be the lead all along!" Raoul told her, in awe. "You were so perfect up there—so commanding. And your singing…it was…beautiful. You…" Raoul added, his voice becoming slightly hushed, "were beautiful."

"Well, thank you, Raoul," Christine responded, her cheeks blushing as her eyes bashfully fell to her bouquet. "But I have only my teacher to thank."

"Your teacher?" Raoul looked at her, eyebrow raised.

"Yes, Raoul…," Christine answered cautiously. "He is wonderful. He told me I would be singing this role, but I didn't know he meant tonight… I didn't think I was ready yet…"

"Well, I promise you, Christine," Raoul chuckled, his cornflower eyes sparkling, "you were more than ready. You were exquisite!"

"Again, it is all because of my teacher…my _angel_!" Christine repeated, excitedly. "He is a miracle worker."

"I think he had a pretty remarkable student to start with," Raoul said, reaching out to trace his finger against her cheekbone, tenderness once again entering his tone. Christine only smiled, but she did not pull away. Seeing this as encouragement, Raoul asked, "I was hoping the new Queen of the Night would do me the honor of being my dinner guest…?" His delivery was smooth and debonair, but instantly, his cheeks colored and a look of shyness came over his face. "Please say that you will, Christine," he implored her. "It has been so long and we have so much to catch up on. I…have missed you, Little Lotte."

Christine smiled at her dear old friend, who had grown so charming—so handsome. In this new, unexpected world of the Paris Opera House, it was truly refreshing to see his face. "Yes, Raoul. I would love to join you for dinner."

Raoul released a sigh of relief. "You would?" he asked, his eyes lighting up with joy. "That's…that's wonderful!"

"But first," Christine held up a finger, "I have to change," she told him, gesturing to the fact that she was still in her costume.

"Oh yes," Raoul nodded. "Of course, of course. I…" he added, clearing his throat and looking awkwardly toward the door, "should probably go find Philippe too. He's been gone a long time. Missed the whole performance!" Raoul turned to go but, as if on an after-thought, he looked back at her once again, taking her hand in his. "I will come for you, Christine," he said in a soft voice as he brought her palm to his lips, kissing it gently and sending a shiver down her spine. And with one more handsome smile, he took his leave.

* * *

"I will come for you, Christine," the insipid nobleman said, with his ridiculous puppy dog eyes and his grating high-brow voice. And then—the _nerve_! the absolute _gall_ of the man!—he had the audacity to stain her perfect, unmarred skin, with his foul lips. How dare he?! How could he possibly presume to take such liberties with an innocent, young girl who was, by virtue of the talent she possessed in her little finger, already far above his station? She should be outraged. She should be aghast. However, judging by the way she was smiling and cradling his large bouquet of roses in her hands, she appeared to be perfectly at ease—and perhaps even flattered—by the gesture.

Erik's head began to throb as shadowy images from his past ran through his mind.

 _"_ _I must go…" another nobleman, handsome and golden had said with mirth in his voice, "but when I return, dear lady, I expect to see you as a member of the Corps du Ballet." And taking Annie's hand in his, he lifted her palm to his lips..._

"No!" Erik growled, placing his hands tightly against his ears, and clenching his eyes shut at the sight. "No! Not again!"

"Angel?" He heard the tiny voice, muffled by his attempts to drown out the voices in his head. "Angel? Are you there?"

Erik took in a deep breath, trying—with little success—to calm the growing anxiety in his chest. "I am here, Christine," he rumbled.

Her eyes lit up and an even brighter smile spread across her face. "Oh, Angel, _what_ a night! Were you there? Did you see? They all stood up for me! They clapped and cheered and threw flowers on the stage!"

"What was he doing here?" Erik demanded, completely ignoring Christine's excited outburst.

"He?" Christine asked confused, "What…?"

"The Vicomté!" Erik snapped.

"The Vicomté?" Christine repeated to herself, not sure at first who he had meant, but then realization hit her. Raoul's father _had_ been the count! "Do you mean Raoul?"

"Oh, are we on a first name basis with the nobleman?" Erik asked, irritated.

"Well, yes…," Christine answered, once again confused. "Angel, we have been friends since we were children. Our fathers knew one another."

"He did not look at you as one looks on a friend."

"It had been years since we'd seen each other and he came by to invite me to supper…"

"And what did you say?" Erik demanded, cutting her off.

"Well…I said yes, of course," Christine answered, mystified at her angel's reaction. "We have so much to catch up on…"

"Christine," Erik began in a stern voice, "You promised me that you would dedicate yourself to music."

"And I have, but…"

"You cannot afford to have any distractions!" Erik's voice rose in intensity. "You must be completely committed to your art!"

"And I am, Angel," Christine swore, her eyes wide and pleading with her angel to believe her. "I promise—it is only supper."

 _Only supper_. Erik's fingers began to tingle and as they curled themselves into a fist, he had the most satisfying vision of wrapping them around the nobleman's scrawny neck until he heard a pop. It was never only supper! That was not how the privileged upper crust of society operated. If Raoul had wasted even a moment of his time coming to visit Christine, it meant he had designs on her—of the not so noble kind, judging by his brother's behavior. And if the vicomté had decided he wanted Christine, he would have her. That was how it worked for those born with a healthy wallet and a handsome face.

 _Well, he can't have her, dammit!_ Erik screamed in his mind. She was _his_! She was his focus! She was poised to make the opera house great again—restore it to its former glory! She was more important than foolish, romantic games. She was everything!

 _"_ _I am yours, Erik…"_ red lips whispered in his mind as they closed in on his own, " _Forever…"_

"Angel…," he heard Christine's voice calling him back from the darkness of his remembered dream, "there _was_ one more reason Raoul was here…"

"What was that!" Erik growled.

Flinching at the sharpness in his tone, Christine responded in a small voice, "He wanted to congratulate me on my performance."

Her _performance_. Of course! Wasn't that the same reason he had come to see her himself? To congratulate her for a job well done? He glanced down at the now mangled rose in his hand that he had deftly lifted from a vendor's cart as he passed behind the lobby, leaving several coins behind in its stead. It had been meant as a small gift for Christine—a congratulatory token for her splendid performance. What a fool he was!

"Well," he said in a sheepish tone, "I do agree with him on that. Your performance was spectacular, Christine. You showed Paris how opera is meant to be sung."

"Thank you, my Angel," Christine responded, the blush returning to her cheeks as she smiled once again.

 _My angel,_ she had called him, once again, so much like that beautiful young girl he used to know. So eager to please him. So devoted to him. And yet, also able to be so easily swayed by a handsome face and a charming demeanor.

"I…" Christine began shyly, "I do wish you would reveal yourself to Raoul—so that we all might celebrate together. You deserve the accolades for tonight—not me."

Erik was silent, considering just how well it might go of if he revealed himself to the young vicomte. It was darkly humorous to imagine the look of horror and disgust on the nobleman's face. And yet, in the space of that sardonic moment a thought entered his mind that would guarantee that no one would be celebrating tonight.

"No, Christine," Erik lowered his voice and made it seem as if it were coming from across the room. "I am afraid I cannot reveal myself to anyone but you."

"But you revealed yourself to Madame Giry," Christine pressed, turning her head to look in the direction from which the voice was emanating.

Surprised by her words, Erik paused in his efforts of sliding her mirror aside. "Did she tell you that?"

"She did," Christine affirmed. "When she encouraged me to sing tonight, she told me my angel thought I was ready."

It took Erik off guard to know that Annie had backed his plan—had urged Christine to do as he wanted. He did not know what to make of her support—nor could he name the emotions it conjured in his heart. So instead, he decided to continue with his plan.

"Madame Giry only has your best interest at heart," he told Christine. "I cannot reveal myself to Raoul. However, that should not be a reason for disappointment. Accept the accolades, Christine. _You_ earned them. Enjoy your supper. But before you do, please accept some small sweetness from your angel. Turn around."

Christine turned and saw several dainty round chocolates on her vanity table.

"Angel?" She asked, "How did you…?"

"Never mind that, Christine," Erik cut her off. "I have my ways. But please, allow me the pleasure of watching your face as you enjoy your gift."

"Of course!" Christine smiled, taking the first piece of candy and popping it in her mouth. "Oh, Angel," she remarked reaching for the second little confection, "these are delicious!"

"Yes," Erik smiled as he watched her finish her treat, "I had hoped they'd be divine. Now why don't you get changed and relax a bit until your friend returns."

"Yes…" Christine yawned, "I am feeling a bit worn out. Are you sure you don't mind my sharing supper with Raoul, Angel?" She asked, walking over to the small settee in the corner and sitting down.

"Just this once, Christine," Erik warned. "Going forward, music must be your only devotion."

"Yes…" Christine yawned again. "Music and…" she added before she allowed her heavy eyelids to flutter closed, "my angel."

"That's right," Erik whispered as he watched Christine succumb to the strong sleeping potion he had injected into the candies, "for that is all you need."

* * *

"Philippe!" Raoul called, as he saw his brother and the opera house managers along with what looked like a stage hand crowding around one of the dressing rooms. "There you are! I've been looking all over for you! You missed a wonderful show! Christine was resplendent!"

"Well, little brother," Philippe said, his voice strained as he gave the door a hefty push with his shoulder. "While you were enjoying your show, I have been here, trying to set Carlotta—the _true_ Queen of the Night—free."

"Set her free?" Raoul echoed, his eyes wrinkling in confusion. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Some… _nuisance_ ," the manager Moncharmin told him as Philippe continued to shove, against the dressing room door, "decided to lock La Carlotta in her dressing room and then shove a mountain of furniture up against the door."

"Oh," Raoul said as he watched his brother still heaving his shoulder at the door, hysterical Italian cries coming from inside. "How exactly does that work?"

"What do you mean?" Philippe asked, pausing in his efforts a moment to look at his younger brother.

"Well, how did the _nuisance_ manage to lock Carlotta in the dressing room from the inside and then shove furniture against the door? It seems as if that would be rather difficult to do…no?"

"Not for a ghost," the stage hand interjected, earning him glares from all the men assembled.

"How am I supposed to know how he did it?" Philippe huffed in irritation. "Just come over here and give me a hand!"

Without another word, Raoul lent his own shoulder to the effort, and soon, they had the door open wide enough so that they could slip inside.

"Oh grazie, grazie," Carlotta practically sobbed when she saw Philippe push his way through the opening.

"Signora, are you alright?" the elder deChagny brother asked, placing his hands on her shoulders and giving her a once over as the others all piled in.

"Ci, ci," Carlotta nodded. "It's just my nerves."

"Signora," Moncharmin began somewhat nervously, "please tell us how this happened. How did you manage to miss opening night?"

"It must have been the chocolates!" Carlotta told them. "I had one—maybe two at most—and all of a sudden, I began to feel woozy. The next thing I knew, you were knocking on my door, and I looked up to find…this… _mess_!" Near to swooning after retelling her story, she collapsed into the Comté's strong arms

"Chocolates, Signora?" Raoul asked, looking around the room as he tightened his arms around the trembling diva, but finding no evidence of any such confection.

"Yes," Carlotta nodded against Philippe's chest. "Chocolates. The box is on my dressing table, with a note from an admirer." If possible, Carlotta leaned even more heavily against her rescuer. Philippe and Raoul both turned their heads toward her vanity, but aside from her cosmetics and jewelry, the surface was bare. Turning their eyes toward one another, the brothers shared a wordless confusion.

"Hmm," Buquet smirked, earning him a glare from his manager, "the ghost got hungry."

* * *

Raoul walked as quickly as his feet would take him back to Christine's dressing room back stage. The nonsense over at Carlotta's dressing room took more time than he had hoped and he knew he'd kept Christine waiting far too long. He was ready to put hysterical divas and mysteriously disappearing boxes of chocolates behind him and enjoy the rest of the evening in the company of the lovely Christine. And yet, when he knocked gently on her dressing room door, she made no answer.

"Christine," he called, but still she did not respond. Noticing that the door was cracked slightly open, he gave a gentle push only to find Christine, still dressed in her Queen of the Night costume, fast asleep on the settee. "Christine," Raoul whispered, entering the room.

He walked over to her and thought about waking her, but when he gazed upon her, he found the he simply could not disturb her. A few unruly mahogany curls fell forward over her forehead. With her eyes closed, he could see how her long lashes lightly brushed against the line of pale freckles that danced along her upper cheekbone. Her lips were slightly parted, allowing the sweetest puffs of breath to escape from between them. "You are so beautiful," Raoul whispered as he gazed upon her sleeping so soundly. "An angel at rest."

Taking a few steps forward, he found a throw on the arm of the settee and gently laid it on her, to keep her cozy and warm. Leaning forward, he brushed the errant curls away from her face, careful not to wake her. It was as he was tucking her hair behind her ears that he noticed it. There, on the left corner of her mouth was a small brown smudge.

Reaching out, he gently brushed against the dark stain with his fingertips. Bringing it to his nose, he sniffed in deeply. A rich, cocoa aroma filled his senses, and his eyes narrowed as he detected the scent. "Chocolate?" he murmured out loud, wondering what exactly was going on at the opera house.

 **AN: OK, Erik, it was one thing when you drugged Carlotta...but now Christine? You're going a bit too far...**


	112. Chapter 112

CH 112

 _My Dear Managers:_

 _I congratulate you on a job well done! My opera house enjoyed a great success last night—Miss Dáae's performance was simply divine. How wise it was of you to place her in the leading role! Of course Signora Giudicelli left you little choice with her slovenly behavior before the show. Eating enough chocolate to make herself pass out! Such behavior is not at all becoming of the first lady of the stage. Of course, since Miss Dáae will heretofore be the prima donna, Carlotta can eat as many sweets as she wishes._

 _I would remind you to continue to leave Box 5 empty. There was truly no need for the incessant attempts to unlock the door. I have already informed you it will be reserved for my use only, and no one else is to be allowed entry—save my messenger, of course. You may find another box for your patrons, or continue to allow them to sit with you—if they are amenable to that arrangement._

 _While we are on the topic of your patrons, please inform the younger one that he is to cease his attempts at distracting Miss Dáae. She is studiously focused on her art, and has no time for dalliances at this time._

 _I look forward to this evening's performance. Miss Dáae, no doubt, will be in perfect form once again. And I urge you to speak with your conductor—the third bassoon was a bit flat. Such imprecision will not be tolerated in my opera house._

 _Regards,_

 _O.G._

Annie kept her eyes trained on the floor as the room hung in stillness after Richard finished reading Erik's letter out loud. The silence was broken seconds later, however, by the loud cry of the soprano's sobs.

"You are _replacing_ me!" Carlotta bellowed, raising a handkerchief to her nose and blowing loudly, making the comté, who was standing behind her with his hands on her shoulders, grimace in distaste.

"No, no, Signora!" Moncharmin swore, as he rushed over to kneel before her chair, handing her a fresh cloth as she continued to weep. "How could we ever replace you?"

"You did last night!" she snapped, snagging the piece of fabric roughly from his hand.

"Please, Signora," Moncharmin continued soothingly, trying to mollify the singer, "you must understand. We had no choice."

"And no soprano!" Richard quipped, with a little less patience. "With a house full of customers. We would have had to refund all that money, since you were…incapacitated."

"Well who's fault is that?" Philippe demanded. "What kind of establishment do you run that someone could so easily sneak into Signora Giudicelli's dressing room and leave drugged chocolates behind. Or is this O.G. right? Is this truly _his_ opera house now?"

"Drugged!" Carlotta wailed into her handkerchief, as the horror of the idea struck her once again.

"We are in charge of this opera house!" Moncharmin snapped, looking up to address the comté.

"Well, act like it!" Philippe retorted

"There has been no evidence of chocolates!" Richard interjected.

"But there were chocolates," Raoul added with a look of certainty on his face. "I am sure of it."

"Well, she's the one who chose to eat them," Richard grumbled, causing Carlotta to cry even harder.

"Did she choose to barricade herself into her dressing room too?" Philippe prodded. "What about that?"

"I don't know about that!" Richard snapped back.

"What if Buquet was right?" Carlotta keened. "What if it was a ghost…?"

"Such ridiculous…," Richard rolled his eyes.

"There is no _ghost_ , Signora…," Moncharmin insisted.

"Whoever it was," Philippe interjected, "it was someone _you_ should have kept out of _your_ establishment!"

"As of now, his game is over!" Moncharmin barked. "This has gone too far! Signora," he continued, turning back to Carlotta, "Wrongs will be righted. Christine will return to the dance corps going forward, and you will be singing the lead role." At his words, Richard let out a loud huff, and crossed his arms over his chest. Ignoring his partner's outburst, Moncharmin continued, "You will once again rule the day as the first lady of the stage."

"Are you sure that's wise, Monsieur?" Annie heard herself say before she was fully aware that she was speaking.

"I'm not too sure," Richard muttered under his breath. "Tickets sold like wildflowers after Miss Dáae's performance last night—and we got our best review."

"Of course it is wise, Madame Giry!" Moncharmin answered, completely ignoring his counterpart's comment. "Are you taking this maniac's side? Do you suggest we submit to his demands?"

"I take no sides, Monsieur!" Annie began, trying to find a way to carefully make her argument without drawing undue attention to herself, "But it….is rather obvious he orchestrated this entire event. If you were to return to operating as normal…what might he do next?"

"What do you mean?" Raoul asked turning to her, worry painted on his face.

"I just…" Annie began, but before she could continue, Carlotta interrupted.

"She just doesn't want to have to deal with the little klutz in her precious corps!" the soprano spat, venom dripping from her words. "It is never about the Opera Garnier with _the mistress_ —it is only about her beloved little dancers! Well, let me tell you something, Antoinette…"

"That is enough!" Raoul shouted, making all eyes turn to him in surprise. Gathering his temper, he turned his attention to Annie. "Madame Giry, do you know of any specific threat to Signora Giudicelli or…," the man paused briefly and swallowed hard before he could make himself say, "Miss Dáae?"

Annie gazed up into the earnest blue eyes of the young man before her, detecting that his concern was more than purely professional. Shaking her head, she assured him, "No, Monsieur. There has been nothing specific. I am certain no harm will come to anyone—especially not Mademoiselle Dáae. And yet…I fear the ghost does not take well to having his demands ignored."

"Well, he is going to have to get used to having them ignored!" Moncharmin chimed in. "For I have no intentions of going along with them. Carlotta is, and will always be, our star!"

* * *

"His eyes are red as flaming coals—his teeth black spikes in the gaping maw of his mouth. His hair a matted cloud of white upon a head of withered gray flesh…"

"Josef Buquet!" Annie snapped with a crack of her cane. She had returned to the stage after the frustrating meeting with the managers only to find her corps gathered around the stagehand, listening intently to his lurid tales. "What lies are you spinning to fill the heads of my dancers?" she demanded crossing her arms over her chest.

"Mr. Buquet was only warning us about the Phantom!" Leeza, an impressionable young brunette with wide blue eyes informed her.

"He told us to never go near Box 5—that that's where he lives," Veronique added.

"And he said we should never walk the halls of the opera house alone—that he would be happy to accompany us back to our quarters if we needed an escort."

At this revelation, Annie raised her eyebrow at the stagehand, who looked back at her with a smile on his face. "Is that so, Monsieur Buquet?" she demanded.

"I am always ready to be of service to these innocent young girls," Buquet answered.

Annie's nostrils flared as her eyes grew cold. "I would advise you," she said to her troop, "to take your chances with the ghost."

"But he sounds hideous!" one of the girls shrieked, and the tittering among the other girls only confirmed that they shared her suspicions. "Terrifying!"

"He's not scary," Meg answered, matter-of-factly, making Annie's heart clench, as she remembered the special bond Meg and Erik had shared when she was a babe.

"As if you know, Meg Giry!" one of the other girls snapped.

"I do," Meg said simply.

"Alright ladies," Annie intervened once again cracking her baton to prevent Meg from revealing too much. "It is time to put this nonsense behind us. Come! We rehearse!"

With a grumble, the dancers rose and took their positions as Annie walked over to Josef Buquet to give him a piece of her mind.

"I have told you before, Buquet!" she spat. "Stay away from my girls!"

"Look," he said, putting his hands up before him, as if to claim innocence. "I was only having a little fun with them."

"That is exactly what I don't want!" she retorted. "I do not approve of your type of fun!"

"Would you really rather them pal around with the ghost?" he asked, her disapproval only serving to amuse him. "After all, your sweet little daughter seems to be well acquainted with him."

Annie took a step closer to the stage hand, pointing a finger into his chest. "Careful what you say, Josef Buquet!" she warned him. "For those who talk too much often find that their words make them fools! Not that it would be much of a stretch in your case! Just do your job and leave my girls alone! They are here to dance—not to provide carnal delights to a lascivious old dog like you!" Giving the stagehand a minor shove, Annie turned away and joined her ladies in their practice.

"Woof woof!" The stagehand retorted, chuckling as she departed. The mistress had always been a fiery little thing—she must have been quite a handful for her departed husband. One of these days, Josef would love to teach her a lesson or two about tangling with a real man. But for now, he would leave it be—and at least make a pretense of tending to his job.

* * *

"5, 6, 7…" Christine listened and tried to make her feet perform the steps necessary to keep up with the routine. Apparently, she would be back in the corps tonight, as La Carlotta had been found locked in her dressing room last night, which was the only reason she had not been able to sing. Christine had to admit that it was a bit disappointing that she would not have another chance to bring the Queen of the Night to life, but she tried to be grateful for what she did have—an absolutely thrilling night upon the Paris stage. The crowd had cheered, her fellow cast members had congratulated her, and most of all, her angel had been pleased.

"Madame Giry!" her head shot up at the sound of the mellow, deep voice. Raoul! What was _he_ doing there?

"Yes, Vicomté," the ballet mistress responded without ever taking her eyes off her corps.

"May I speak with Miss Dáae?" the dashing nobleman asked politely. "I promise, I will only take a moment of her time."

 _No_ , Christine screamed internally, begging her ballet mistress to draw a hard line and not allow Raoul to disturb rehearsals. Madame had never been the type to suffer minor dalliances. Surely, she would not forfeit even a minor amount of practice time.

"Make it quick, Monsieur," came her teacher's harried response, and Christine knew she had been betrayed.

"Christine," Raoul's gentle voice washed over her as she attempted to continue her routine.

"Hello Raoul," she responded, trying to feign concentration as she extended her arms over her head.

"May I speak with you a moment, Christine?" he asked.

"I do not think it's wise, right now, Raoul," Christine answered, turning on a pivot and bringing her arms down to her sides in an elegant arch. "I'm practicing."

"Oh," Raoul pressed, "But I got your teacher's permission. However," he added, leaning in to speak quietly in her ear, "I imagine we need to be quick—before she changes her mind."

Sighing, Christine allowed herself to look at him, and the minute her eyes met his, she knew she was lost. "Alright, Raoul," she relented with a nod. "But only for a moment."

They walked off to the side of the stage, Christine resting her back against the wall, Raoul standing before her, his back to the rest of the dancers.

"How are you feeling this morning, Christine?" Raoul asked, his lips turning up at the corners in a smile that nearly took her breath away. "Better rested than last night, I presume?"

"Raoul," Christine began, looking down as her cheeks began to color—but whether it was from embarrassment for having fallen asleep on him the night before, or from his current closeness, she could not say, "I must apologize for last night. I…suppose I was more exhausted than I had realized when I agreed to go with you to supper."

"That is quite alright, Christine," Raoul assured her, reaching out to tip her chin up so that she was looking at him. "It is quite understandable. We will just have to revisit our plans tonight."

"Raoul," Christine responded, shaking her head, "I can't."

"You can't?" Raoul asked, confused. "But why? I thought you wanted to catch up."

"I do," Christine nodded. "I do—very much. But…," her voice trailed off as her desires warred with her obligations.

"But what, Christine?" Raoul pressed, and the look of disappointment in his eyes was nearly her undoing.

"Raoul," Christine said sadly, "I must focus on my art. I…I do not have time for…dalliances."

Raoul gazed at her as words from the Ghost's mysterious letter echoed back at him. _…She is studiously focused on her art, and has no time for dalliances at this time._ Her words mimicked the letter almost verbatim. Raoul was certain that it was not a coincidence.

"Christine," Raoul countered, "I am not proposing a dalliance. It is only supper—and you must eat, must you not, in order for your art to thrive."

"Yes," Christine allowed, "I must eat, but…"

"But…?"

"Raoul," Christine sighed, seeing no way to convince him without being completely honest. "My teacher was not pleased at my plans to share supper with you last night."

"Madame Giry…?" Raoul asked confused.

"No, not Madame Giry," Christine shook her head. Then, meeting his eye with a knowing look, she told him, "My _angel_."

"Your angel?" Raoul asked trying to understand. "Christine, are you trying to tell me that your teacher is a _true_ angel?"

"Well," Christine nodded, her cheeks once again flushing, "Yes. Raoul, as a child, my father always used to tell me stories of the Angel of…"

"The Angel of Music," Raoul nodded, "Yes, yes, I remember."

"Yes…well, he promised me that after he died, the Angel of Music would come to me and comfort me, and Raoul…" her eyes lit up as she took his hand and squeezed in her earnestness, "it has happened. I have been visited by the Angel of Music."

"Based on what I heard last night," Raoul responded, squeezing her hand in return and adoring the feeling of it resting in his palm, "I wholeheartedly believe that. However," Raoul pressed, "why would the angel object to your having supper with an old friend?"

"He considers it a distraction," Christine told him, pulling her palm from his and turning away, putting a few steps of distance between them. "He thinks our…friendship…would be something to divert me from my music. Not that it matters much anymore," Christine added, looking down at the floor. "Since I will be returning to the corps du ballet tonight."

"Christine," Raoul said gently, closing the distance between them and placing his hands on her upper arms. "You will shine, no matter your role in tonight's show. And I understand your need to concentrate on your music, but you know I would never do anything to come between you and your artistic pursuits. I completely support your singing _and_ dancing…but," he added, giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze, "you _have_ to eat."

Christine glanced at him over her shoulder, his light blue eyes so sincere, his lips turned up into an encouraging smile. "You're right, Raoul," she acceded. "But my Angel said last night was to be our only supper. After last night, I was to concentrate on my music and my music alone."

"Ahh, but we didn't have last night, Christine," Raoul countered, turning her to face him. "It seems only fair to me to let tonight be our only supper. And perhaps once your angel sees that you can dine with me and not be pulled away from your art, he will allow further opportunities for us to rekindle our…friendship."

At long last, Christine finally smiled. "Alright Raoul," she told him. "I cannot argue with your logic. But remember—just this once!"

"Just this once," Raoul's eyes sparkled as he nodded in agreement. "For now."

With a little giggle, Christine added, "I'm looking forward to it already! I never did have any supper last night—only a couple of chocolates before I fell asleep."

"Chocolates?" Raoul asked innocently, trying to quiet his pounding heart.

"Yes," Christine told him. "Chocolates. A gift from my angel."

* * *

Erik was incensed. This day was not going as he had planned—not at all. First of all, those moronic managers were insisting that Carlotta Giudicelli remain in the leading role. He was not sure what exactly it was they found most offensive—satisfied audiences, increased ticket sales, or superior music—but in fact, it did not matter. For Erik would have no problem seeing that his wishes were, in fact, carried out in the most public and definitive way possible.

Christine, however, was proving to be more of a challenge than he had anticipated. Not only had she agreed to join the ridiculous nobleman for supper that evening—allowing herself to be persuaded to rebel against his express directives—but she had also revealed to the insufferable child that she had been visited upon by the Angel of Music—disobeying a direct order not to tell anyone about him, and thus revealing the identity he had chosen to cultivate for her. He could not accept such defiance lightly and would have to think of some way to urge her against such further infractions of his rules.

These were the thoughts running through his mind as he stalked the hidden passages after rehearsal had broken for the noonday meal, his cloak billowing out behind him like the wings of a night bird in flight. He had arrangements to make—he had supplies to procure—he…was not expecting the small voice that called out to him, stopping him in his tracks.

"Are you the Phantom?"

 **AN: Well, Erik? Are ya? OK, first of all, I want to apologize for not being able to personally respond to reviews as much lately. I've been doing a LOT of traveling. BUT, I'll try to do better in the future.**

 **So, Erik, your plans are not exactly going as you thought, and NOW, someone has found you. I wonder who it could be...?**


	113. Chapter 113

CH 113

Slowly, Erik turned to face the petite young dancer, her golden curls glowing in her lantern's soft light. She was still dressed in her ballerina garb, her soft satin slippers rendering her feet silent. Her uncharacteristic stealth combined with his own irritated distraction had allowed her to sneak up on him undetected, but unlike their first encounter her in these hidden passageways, she was alone.

"Meg," he began, his voice soft and low.

"You know me!" the little blond girl cried, and the joy that shone in her eyes was almost enough to melt his frozen heart.

"Yes…," Erik affirmed in a hollow voice. "I do…"

"I feel as if I know you too!" the excited ballerina interjected. "Finding you here just seemed…somehow… _right_. It's as if…" pausing for a moment to search for the correct word, she added, "you belonged here."

Erik was quiet as he absorbed the little dancer's statement. If only she knew that of which she spoke. "Some might say I do," he responded. "But what of you? Who told you of this place?"

"Well, no one _told_ me about it. I found it one day while I was playing hide and seek," she informed him, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Since then, it's been one of my favorite places to come when I have a break in rehearsals—which is almost never. Or after practice, when I have time to play with Alain."

"Alain, hmmm?" Erik asked, unable to keep his eyebrow from raising in a slightly paternal way. This Alain must have been the son of the nanny Annie had employed when Meg was an infant—the new comté's bastard child.

"Yes," she informed him. "my best friend. The one who was with me the other night. So…," she looked at him, having suddenly remembered her previous question, "then you _are_ the Phantom?"

"Is that what they are calling me?" Erik asked, curious as to why Little Giry was using that particular term, since he had always signed his notes O.G.

"Well, that is what Josef Buquet is calling you," Meg answered matter-of-factly. "He likes to act as if he has seen you—as if you are some hideous, horrible monster…"

"Does he now?" Erik asked, his jaw tightening in irritation. He had not yet met this Josef Buquet—but perhaps it was time the ghost paid him a visit. It was not polite for the stagehand to be making such accusations—even if they were true.

"Well, he is obviously just trying to scare the other dancers," Meg informed him, with a roll of her eyes. "But I know better."

"Truly?" Erik asked, intrigued by the young girl's pluck. "And what do _you_ call me?"

"Well," Meg answered quietly, a thoughtful look in her eyes, "when I saw you by the lake the other day, it seemed most natural to call you Papa."

Meg's words squeezed Erik's heart, but he only swallowed hard as he heard her continue.

"I know it's impossible," she said, rolling her eyes again and listing off the reasons why her inclinations had to be wrong. "First of all, father is dead—and mother says his hair was sunny and blond like mine—not black as night like yours. So, I know you can't be him. Unless," she suddenly paused to look him directly in the eye.

"Unless?" Erik prodded, even though he knew he shouldn't. He wished to hear more of this remarkable child's rationalization.

"Unless you truly _are_ a ghost—the ghost of my dead father—," she exclaimed, "and you have come back for mother and me."

 _Oh, Little Giry_ , Erik thought as he gazed upon this beautiful, precocious child, hope blazing in her bright blue eyes. _You called me papa once…_

"Would it not frighten you," Erik asked, fighting against the dryness in his throat as he battled to keep his very volatile emotions in check, "to be conversing with a ghost?"

"I…," Meg answered, once again looking Erik directly in the eye, a sense of wonder coming over her expression as if she too were surprised by what she was about to say, "am not afraid of you."

 _You need never be afraid of me_ he thought, as he gazed upon a face that had become so beloved to him _._ But out loud, he spoke, "I am not your father, Meg."

The look of disappointment on the girl's face almost made Erik blurt his inmost yearning, _But I wish I was, Little Giry. Dear God, I wish I was…_ The sadness in her eyes was short lived, however, as her next question spilled forth from her lips.

"But you know mother?"

"I do," Erik confirmed with a stoic set to his jaw.

"How?" Meg demanded, eager to learn the secret of their association.

"We were close…" Erik said, his voice growing hushed. "Once…"

"Is that why you named her your box keeper?" Meg asked, and then her voice growing conspiratorial, she added, "The messenger of the ghost?"

"I never even said I _was_ the ghost," Erik retorted, flabbergasted.

"But you are!" Meg exclaimed with certainty. "Don't worry. I'll keep your secret! And for what it's worth," she added leaning in and lowering her voice, even though there was no chance of anyone overhearing them, "I agree with you. Christine is a much better singer than Carlotta. She _should_ be in the lead."

Erik could not stop a proud smile from spreading across his face, "Yes," he nodded, "she should."

"Well, how are you going to make it happen?" Meg asked, "Because Carlotta…" her voice trailed off with a shudder that almost made Erik chuckle out loud.

"I did have a couple of ideas," Erik responded drolly.

"Oh, please Monsieur Phantom," Meg implored him, her blue eyes wide and sincere in her sweet little face, "let me help! She has been so mean to everyone—for so long! I would love to do my part to get rid of that awful woman."

He should have said no. He knew her mother would not approve. Annie had not even taken it upon herself to breath one word of him to this child that she knew he loved dearly. There was no possibility of her agreeing to Meg being involved in his schemes in any way. _But then again_ , he thought to himself as a mischievous glint sparked in his eye, _Annie didn't have to know…_

"As a matter of fact, Little Giry," Erik smirked. "I might have just the thing for you to do."

* * *

Though opening night had been a grand success, preparations for this second night of the run were perhaps even more hectic than the first. Dancers scurried about, aimlessly. Shaky trills, many of them slightly flat, were heard as singers attempted to warm their voices. The atmosphere among the cast was fraught with nerves, and everyone knew exactly why. It was not the full house that had them jittery, nor was it the presence of the Comté and his brother in the managers' box, nor even whispered tales of the ghost. No, there was only one cause for their apparent tension. Carlotta was back.

"You!" the prissy prima donna barked in a huff at one of the younger dancers who was fixing her hair. "Move aside! I need to do my makeup!"

The cowed ballerina immediately vacated the seat so that the diva could take her place in front of the long mirror. After the debacle of the previous night, Carlotta absolutely refused to use her dressing room, or any of the other private changing areas, to prepare for the show. There was no way this _O.G._ was going to keep her out of the spotlight for another night.

"Hello, Signora Giudicelli," came the cheery voice of the little blonde dancer.

"Oh," Carlotta said in a sour voice as she glanced into the mirror to see Antoinette Giry's little brat standing behind her. "It's you."

"Yes—this is where the ballerinas usually get ready," she told the diva with a smile.

"Well, tonight, this is where _I_ am getting ready," Carlotta informed her. "And you can just run along now, for I do not wish to be disturbed. After all, what does it matter how a few little ballet rats look compared to the star of the show?"

"Oh, of course," Meg nodded, ignoring the diva's order that she leave. "You must look your best." Meg stood by and watched quietly for a moment while Carlotta caked on the heavy makeup required by a stage performer. Feeling slightly unnerved by the young girl's continued presence, Carlotta turned and looked at her, "Is there something you want?"

"No," Meg answered, in a matter of fact way, "I was just wondering if there was anything I could do to help tonight's star…since there is no room for me to make my own preparations…"

Carlotta loosed an annoyed sigh. "Go to my dressing room and fetch me my throat spray!" she commanded, eager to get the girl out of her hair. "I need it to keep my throat in prime condition for tonight's performance."

"Sure!" Meg answered eagerly. "Is there anything else you need?" she asked before turning to go.

"No!" Carlotta snapped. "Just…GO!"

With a little nod, the girl scurried away to fetch her spray. Carlotta watched her go, relief spreading across her face. That ought to keep the little rat out of her hair for a while. With any luck, Carlotta chuckled to herself as she reached for a tube of lipstick, the little nuisance might even run into the ghost!

* * *

When the chandelier hanging in the center of the gloriously painted ceiling dimmed, the orchestra's first strains filled the auditorium and the show began. An excited hush came over the audience as they waited for the Queen of the Night to appear. They had heard such marvelous things about the Garnier's new prima donna, they could hardly wait to hear her themselves. When the moment arrived, however, it was no new songstress who materialized before them, but the same harsh sounding soprano who had marred many a pervious performance. The collective groan in the crowd was quiet but audible, and seemed to be pierced by someone's soft laughter.

"They are disappointed that it is not Christine on stage," Meg whispered to her mother as the dancers stood in the wings, awaiting their cue.

"Hush Meg," Annie chided, as she glanced over to see the young girl in question standing a little apart from the rest of the dancers, a quiet sadness in her eyes.

"You know she should be singing," Meg pressed, ignoring her mother's plea for silence.

"That is not up to me, Meg," Annie told her daughter. "It is for the managers to decide. We do as we are told," she added, turning her head back to watch the action on the stage. "Nothing more…nothing less."

At that, Meg remained silent. Perhaps it was her mother's personality to obey and always wish to follow the rules, but that was just not in Meg's nature. When the opportunity presented itself, she was all too thrilled to help the ghost in his efforts to oust Carlotta and make Christine the new prima donna. After all, she had been born into the life of a ballerina and the opera house was the only home she had known and she wanted to see it at its best.

She had heard stories of the opera's glory days when her father had had a hand in running the show. She'd been too young to appreciate how things were back then, but given the ghost's interest in preserving the opera house, he really didn't seem very different from what she knew of her father at all. She would happily do whatever it took to help him restore order back to the opera house, even if it did mean switching the diva's throat spray with the ghost's own concoction.

A mischievous smirk spread over her lips, Meg recalled Carlotta's surprise when she sprayed a few puffs of the stuff right into the diva's face. It had immediately caused her to cough and sputter, yelling for Meg, whom she had called the "infernal brat," to leave her alone "right this _instant_!" Carlotta's shrill shrieks had made her cringe, but it had been necessary, to make certain the diva was actually exposed to the spray. Only a few sprays would cause the effect the ghost hoped for. Any more that she might use herself would simply be the icing on the cake.

It was right before Meg was to take the stage that she heard the first croak.

Meg giggled as she watched the expression of alarm cross over the diva's features. Frantically trying to clear her throat, she let the orchestra play on for several measures until her next cue to sing. But when she opened her mouth, no notes emerged, but rather another grating croak—the type that might be expected to come from a bulbous, warty bullfrog. The conductor had silenced the orchestra, noting Carlotta's distress, and the auditorium was at first filled with silence. When the singer continued to struggle with her voice, however, the silence turned to grumbling and a few irritated voices even shouted out "Bring on Miss Dáae!"

"It's working," Meg muttered under her breath, watching as the panic-stricken diva fell to her knees, her hands circling her throat in terror.

Annie turned her stricken face from the disaster on the stage to gaze at her daughter. " _What_ did you say?"

"I didn't say anything," Meg chuckled, "and it looks like _she's_ not going to either!"

Annie's eyes narrowed in anger at her daughter's mirth. "Marguerite Giry…" she began to scold, but her words were silenced by a great, booming voice that thundered out of the darkness.

 _"_ _Yes! Bring on Miss Dáae! After all, she was always meant to be the lead in tonight's performance—not this regrettable toad that you insisted upon putting on the stage."_

Carlotta slowly looked up into the darkness to try to find the source of the humiliating words, but a cacophonous bellow of laughter suddenly filled the auditorium. It seemed to be emanating from all around, growing louder and louder as it continued, until it was finally pierced by the diva's shrill sobs as the houselights mercifully came on and the managers flanked by Philippe and Raoul came rushing on stage to comfort her.

"I cannot!" Carlotta blubbered, as Philippe bent low to pull her into an embrace. "I simply cannot!"

"It's alright," He murmured to her, as he glared over her shoulder at Moncharmin and Richard. "You don't have to. It's alright."

"What are we going to do?" Moncharmin whined to his partner, looking from the hysterical soprano on the stage to the restless crowd in the seats.

"What do you mean 'what are we going to do?'" Richard asked gruffly. "You heard the crowd! They want Miss Dáae. Bring her on!"

"It that wise, Monsieur?" Raoul asked, concerned for his old friend to get mixed up in this mess.

"It is wiser than having to refund all of their money!" Richard retorted, gesturing to the impatient audience.

"But it is what _he_ wants!" Moncharmin protested.

"Then I say we give it to him!" Richard snapped, angrily, having had quite enough of divas and ghosts and his timorous partner. "Good God, it's the only thing we can do, short of cancelling the entire performance!" Stalking to the front of the stage, Richard addressed the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, we will be taking a fifteen-minute intermission, after which time, the role of the Queen of the Night will be played by Miss Christine Dáae. We thank you," he added, clearing his throat, "for your patience. In the mean-time, the bar is open and will be serving cocktails, so please enjoy a drink. I know I will," he muttered this last part under his breath, as he walked off the stage, lifting a handkerchief to his sweating brow.

"I knew it would work!" Meg whispered to herself again as the comte' finally lifted the still-crying diva to her feet, and helped to usher her offstage.

Glancing at Meg once again with suspicion, she had just opened her mouth to speak when Moncharmin called her name.

"Madame Giry!" he cried. "We need you to help Christine get ready for the switch in roles. Thanks to my impulsive partner, we need to be ready to go in fifteen minutes, and time is wasting."

"Yes, Monsieur," Annie nodded, but before she left, she leaned down to Meg and muttered, "We will speak of this later!"

* * *

The soft knock came just as Annie was using pins to affix the headpiece into Christine's mess of curly hair.

"Are you decent?" came the rich male voice that Christine had been hoping to hear all evening.

"Yes, Raoul!" she answered. "Please, come in!"

The door opened and the comte's tall, blonde younger brother entered the room. In a flash, she was taken back a decade to an afternoon in the park when she and Giles had taught these two to dance. My, but he had grown into a charming young man, so different from the brash, arrogant youngster he had been! Can time _truly_ change people that much?

"Madame Giry," he nodded in her direction before continuing on to kneel in front of Christine. "Are you ready, Little Lotte?" he asked her, a gentle smile on his face.

"If my angel thinks I'm ready," Christine smiled in return, "then I am."

Annie bristled a bit at hearing the term angel, but she knew this was simply how things were. Erik was no longer _her_ angel. He was now Christine's and there was nothing she could do about it. So, keeping her lips pursed tightly together, she simply continued pinning the younger girl's hair.

"Pardon me, Christine," Raoul countered shaking his head, "but I do not think that what he did to Carlotta seemed at all angelic. Are you certain he is not dangerous?"

"Dangerous, Raoul?" Christine answered, shocked that he would even ask the question.

"Carlotta was terrified, Christine," Raoul told her. "And how exactly was he able to manipulate her voice like that?"

Saying nothing, Annie felt her heart begin to race. _Was_ Erik dangerous? How had he managed to make her croak the way he had? As poor of a singer as Carlotta was, she wasn't _that_ bad on her own…

"What makes you think he manipulated her voice?" Christine asked, with all of her youthful naiveté. "Perhaps it was just coincidence that she was stricken ill this evening."

"Perhaps," Raoul conceded, "but I doubt it. It all seemed too convenient. He wanted you to sing…"

"And do you not also want me to sing?" Christine asked, and suddenly her face seemed a bit crestfallen. "Would you rather that I had remained in the corps du ballet, instead of singing the lead?"

"No, Christine," Raoul shook his head, his gaze softening as he took her hand in his. "For truly, if there is an angel in this opera house, it is you. Your voice is of the heavens and I am overjoyed to be able to hear it once again." Then his face growing serious once more, he added, "I only wish for you to be safe…"

"Raoul!" Christine giggled a bit as she squeezed his hand and gazed into his eyes. "I _am_ safe! And I shall continue to be safe as I sing for you tonight."

"And then to supper?" Raoul asked, star struck by beautiful sight of her smile.

"And then to supper."

The two gazed at each other silently for a moment more before Annie cleared her throat to break the silence. "It is time for you to take to the wings, Christine," she told her, not able to meet either of their gazes, as she could see the bud of romance blooming between them right before her very eyes. "The curtain rises in but a moment."

"Until supper, Christine," Raoul nodded, lifting her palm to his lips and kissing it before rising to his feet.

"Until supper," Christine echoed his words back to him, her eyes shining as she watched him walk out the door.

"Come," Madame said sternly once the vicomté had departed. "We do not wish to keep your audience waiting."

"Or my angel," Christine added excitedly as she rose from her seat and hurried toward the door.

Swallowing hard Annie closed her eyes against the sadness in her heart as she watched Christine scurry toward the stage. " _Or_ your angel," she added, as she too made her way to the stage, closing the door behind her.

* * *

Erik took a deep whiff of the rose in his hand—beautiful and fragrant, just the right token to bestow upon the lady who had just dazzled all of Paris with her ethereal voice. Christine had given her all on stage—every note bursting with exquisite emotion. The audience had been speechless—for a moment—and then had erupted into thunderous applause. No one had missed Carlotta—in fact, Erik would venture to say they were all glad she was gone. Finally, opera was being sung as it should be. Christine had given his opera house a triumph, and unlike the night before, when Erik had allowed his temper to get the better of him, this night there would be no mistaking that he was pleased. His rose would tell her so.

His fingers tingled for a second, with the memory of gingerly arranging silken raven tresses to frame a perfect, red blossom. Would Christine wear her flower in her hair? It had seemed so beautiful…once…

Shaking his head to dispatch the memory of another girl with another rose, Erik slid aside the panel that would reveal Christine's dressing room. He could not wait to tell her how wonderful she was.

But she was not alone.

"You were magnificent, my lady!" the vicomté told her, as he bowed low with a flourish and presented her with another bouquet of red roses.

"Raoul," Christine giggled, taking the roses from him, "more flowers? You just brought me roses last night!"

"That was last night!" Raoul joked as he rose to his full height. "You are well deserving of more roses tonight—or would you perhaps prefer orchids? Lilies? I will fill your room with any blossom you choose."

"No, no, Raoul," Christine laughed harder now, her eyes crinkled with glee. "These are beautiful." Then getting her laughter under control, she smiled sincerely and added, "I only meant it was a surprise. I am not used to being spoiled like this!"

"Well, get used to it, Little Lotte," Raoul smiled as he vowed, "because I intend to spoil you rotten."

Laughing again at his silliness, Christine took his hand as she said, " _Thank_ you, Raoul. It is so good to have your friendship in my life again."

"You have that, Christine," Raoul vowed, as he lifted her palm to his lips and kissed it sweetly. "And more…"

Christine's eyes seemed to melt with sentimentality, and she leaned ever so slightly closer to the man before seeming to catch herself.

"Shall we go, then, Raoul?" she asked, straightening her body and plastering a bright smile across her lips.

"We shall, Christine," the vicomté nodded, extending his arm so that Christine could take it. "To supper!"

"To supper," she echoed placing her hand in the crook of his arm and leaning her head lightly against his shoulder as the made their way out of the dressing room.

Erik stared into the room, eyes fixed on the space where they had been for long moments after they had left. She had disobeyed him—disgraced him—gone out with the boy against his express wishes! She had _betrayed_ him—her angel to whom she owed her great success. Had she not promised him? Had she not sworn to put her music ahead of silly personal relationships? Had she not vowed to eschew romance in favor of her art's greater calling?

"You will learn Christine," Erik seethed through clenched teeth, "not to disobey me!" And once again, crushed flower petals fell from his fist to the floor.

 **AN: Roses don't really fare well with Erik, do they?**


	114. Chapter 114

CH 114

Meg had managed to escape her mother's interrogation that night by claiming to be exhausted, but the following morning it was quite a different story.

"Alright, Meg," Her mother had begun, as she took a seat across from her at the breakfast table. "What do you know about the incident with Signora Giudicelli?"

"What makes you think I know anything about it, mother?" Meg asked, carefully studying the food on her plate, to avoid looking her mother in the eye.

"Your own words," her mother spoke plainly, an eyebrow arching to show Meg that she meant business. "I heard your mutterings last night, Meg. Something about _it_ working. Just what was _it_ , young lady?"

Meg took a bite of her croissant chewing on it thoroughly, to give herself time to think. "I only meant," she answered, taking a sip of her juice, to further prolong her response, "that the ghost's plan was working. He wanted Christine to sing last night—isn't that what he told you?"

Her mother's jaw tightened just a bit, her eyes glancing down at the table as she answered, "The ghost did not _tell_ me anything. He simply left a note, which I delivered to the managers. He does not speak to me."

Meg's eyes narrowed at her mother's words and her odd expression. It was as if her answer were filled with regret. "But he _has_ spoken to you, hasn't he?"

After a long moment of silence, her mother's soft words confirmed Meg's suspicions. "A long time ago, I heard his voice," she answered, and her eyes were a world away. "But those days are gone," she added, quickly sobering, and looking back at Meg once more. "And we are talking about you, Meg Giry. How exactly were _you_ privy to the ghost's _plan_? What makes you think he even had one?"

"I only meant," Meg sputtered, distressed that the conversation had once again been turned to her connection with the ghost, "that when Carlotta started croaking it seemed the ghost was behind it—that he would get what he wanted."

"And it appears that he did," her mother agreed, sipping slowly on her juice. Just as Meg took another bite of croissant, content that her logic had released her from suspicion, her mother asked another question.

"Did you help him, Meg?"

"What?" Meg asked, coughing a bit on her breakfast and reaching for a napkin to wipe her mouth. "Why would you think that?"

"Why indeed?" her mother asked in return, raising her eyebrows again.

"Mother, I had nothing to do with what happened last night," Meg said, a pang of guilt arising in her heart as she told her first actual lie. "But I cannot say that I am sorry about it. Carlotta is an awful woman."

"Signora Giudicelli is certainly very difficult to get along with," her mother countered. "But it is not ours to decide whether or not she should be the star of the opera house. Do not get involved with this fight, Meg Giry."

"How could I?" Meg asked, feigning innocence. " _You_ are the ghost's messenger. Not I. Even if I do find Carlotta to be conceited, rude, and about as talented as a cow," she held up her hand, when it was clear her mother was about to interject, "I am but a lowly ballerina."

Releasing a deep sigh, her mother corrected her. "Hardly lowly, Meg. One day, you will be the prima ballerina. With your talent, there is no doubt in my mind."

"Then I shall do my best to know my place," Meg answered with a tight smile, saying exactly what she knew her mother needed to hear, "and leave the rest to the managers."

"See to it, my dear," her mother nodded approvingly.

The Girys took several more bites of their breakfast in silence, before Meg announced what her plans were for her day off from the stage.

"I am going to meet Alain, mother," Meg said, rising to her feet, and walking to the cupboard. Placing a few snacks into a sack, she added, "We're going to the park to play."

"Alright, dear," her mother nodded. "Be back for supper."

"We will," Meg promised, having planned all along to bring her friend home to share the evening meal at their table.

"And remember what I said, Meg!" her mother warned, as Meg walked to the door.

With a heavy sigh and a masterful eye roll, Meg nodded, "Yes mother!" before slipping out of sight.

* * *

The stagehand watched as the little blonde ballet rat bounced down the hall, oblivious that there was anyone behind her. She was dressed in a regular day dress, since the stage was dark that day, but that did not stop Josef from remembering the way her dancer's leotard hugged her burgeoning curves in just the right places. Yes, Madame Giry's little brat was young—but she wasn't _that_ young. It was already obvious she would be a rather voluptuous little tart in a few years.

She had a knapsack slung around her body as she set out upon her day, which made Josef think she was probably meeting that little boyfriend of hers—her nanny's son—for a picnic in the park. He shook his head disapprovingly as he continued to slink behind, watching her every move. How could the prim and proper Madame Giry approve of such a thing? Sure, they had been raised together since they were babes, but the boy was a few years older than the ballet mistress's daughter. He was at just the age that young men start to notice things like the curve of a girl's breasts and the sway of her hips. It would not surprise him if the young cad had already had his first taste of the little ballerina's supple flesh. Had the whelp's inexperienced fingers already fumbled their way beneath her skirts?

Just the thought of the sweetness that the boy might have discovered there made his trousers tighten a bit at the memory of the way the young girls at the gypsy camp came into their womanhood. He had helped many a pliable young thing along, especially after the death of the master. Their cries, first of fear and then of submission had always been his favorite part, driving him on to find his own pleasure as he taught them the ways of carnal delight. He had hoped that similar opportunities might present themselves with all the ballet rats running around here at the Garnier, but it seemed that that cold fish Giry was always on the prowl. Funny how she wouldn't let him come within a foot of her precious dancers, but she allowed her daughter to run off with the nanny's son whenever she so chose. Was the woman truly so daft about what adolescents do together when mummy's not there to keep watch?

Almost completely lost in his lustful thoughts, he had nearly missed it when the young Giry turned suddenly to the left and slipped behind the statue of Pythia. Stopping in his tracks, he watched from a safe distance as the wall opened and swallowed the young girl whole, only to close again as if it had never moved at all.

The stagehand stood and stared for a moment longer. He could not believe what he had seen with his very own eyes. The young ballerina had simply disappeared—right into a wall. She had not screamed or tried to get away—she had simply slid behind the statue and waited for it to wall to open to her.

What incredible fortune! A secret room behind the walls of the opera? He simply _had_ to explore it for himself. Who knew what kind of opportunities a hideaway such as this, faraway from that prude Giry's prying eyes, could lead to?

He had nearly reached the statue when he heard the voice behind him.

"Buquet!" came the nasally cry, and the stagehand turned to see the dolt Moncharmin coming down the hall behind him. "What are you doing just standing around? The stage is dark today—which means it's time for maintenance. You never did get that chandelier cleaned before opening night, like we wanted. This would be the _perfect_ time to get started on _that_ particular task! I want it gleaming before the Midsummer's Masquerade!"

Gritting his teeth together, he nodded to his irritating manager. "Yes sir! Consider it done."

"I'll consider it done," Moncharmin retorted, "when it _is_ done. It's an enormous task—it'll likely take all day. But luckily, you have it!" With a high pitch shriek of laughter, Moncharmin thumped him on the back before continuing on his way.

Buquet glared after the man with eyes intent on murder until the bumbling fool was at last out of sight. Glancing back at the statue, he knew his exploration would have to wait. But he would explore. Later. And who knows what he might find…

* * *

"It was incredible!" Meg gushed as she and her ghostly companion walked together through the tunnels back down to the subterranean chamber. "I knew what the throat spray was supposed to do, but I couldn't believe it when she actually started croaking like a frog! And seemingly out of nowhere."

"The effect of the spray is gradual," Erik explained calmly as he led them through the darkness, "so that it cannot be easily tied to its catastrophic results."

"And catastrophic they were!" Meg giggled. "La Carlotta has been behaving like a toad for so long, she got exactly what she deserved."

A slight touch of a smile graced Erik's lips as he agreed, "I rather thought so."

"And Christine!" Meg continued, her voice taking on a tone of wonder. "She was incredible. Even more beautiful than on opening night. Her voice is simply amazing."

Erik took in a deep breath before making his reply, recalling his pupil's less than stellar behavior after the show. "Yes," he nodded, "Her voice is exceptional, and she did a fine job on the stage, but I fear Christine is lacking in discipline. Obedience. If she wishes to be successful, they are skills she must cultivate."

Meg watched her companion in silence for a moment. The set of his jaw on the exposed side of his face had become tighter, his eyes somewhat more tense. His hand had curled into a fist at his side. She got the distinct sense that there was more on the topic of Christine that he was not saying. But in this way, he was similar to her mother. If there was something he had not mentioned, she knew no amount of begging would force him to reveal what he was hiding.

"That must be why you chose her," Meg commented, as they turned the final corner into the wide chamber by the lake, to see his little boat bobbing in the distance.

Erik turned to look at her, confusion in his gaze. "You think I chose Christine because she was undisciplined and disobedient?"

"No," Meg countered, rolling her eyes, as if her meaning should be obvious. "I meant why you chose my mother to be your messenger! _She_ is _all about_ obedience and discipline and _knowing your place_. 'Be quiet, Meg,'" she mimicked as she easily scrambled into the boat. "'Mind your manners, Meg.' 'It is not ours to decide, Meg.' 'Do not get involved with this fight.' Blah, blah, blah," she added, taking her seat as she waited for the dark figure to join her. "She knows Christine is a far better singer than Carlotta, but she refused to admit it and say anything to the managers. She is always so concerned about doing what's proper, that she would choose that over what is right. She never would have helped you with the throat spray last night, because it wasn't her _place_ ," she finished her statement with a huff and a roll of her eyes.

Erik continued to stand there, beside the boat and stare at her with a stunned expression on his face. Was she talking about _Annie_? _His_ Annie? The very same girl who slayed the gypsy master to save the life of a miserable creature, more skeleton than boy? How little did she truly know of her own mother!

"Are you going to get in the boat, Monsieur Phantom?" Meg inquired, wondering what was taking the masked man so long.

Realizing that he had frozen in his surprise, Erik gracefully climbed into the boat beside the little dancer, deftly untying the knot that held them at dock. He was silent as he pushed off shore, lost in his memories of time gone by. While Meg was caught up in the eerily beautiful sights of the underground world all around her, he was busy recalling a girl who had been so very different from the woman she had apparently become. It was only as they were disembarking from their vessel that Meg made mention of how quiet her companion had been.

"Are you alright, Monsieur?" she asked, as he removed his hat and cloak from his person, hanging them on the coat rack he had constructed from some old discarded wood.

"I am simply remembering, Meg," Erik responded, still half lost in thought as he led her into his tidy sitting room.

"What are you remembering?" Meg asked, perching herself on the edge of the small cushioned settee.

"Your mother," he answered.

"My mother?" Meg asked. "I don't understand."

Erik looked at the little girl sitting on his settee, waiting now, for an explanation that he was not certain he should give. Could she even imagine her mother as she used to be? Before she had become Madame Giry? When she was still simply _Annie_?

"Your mother was not always as you've described, Meg," Erik began, his mind's eye set on visions of the past. "She was a steadfast, determined young girl who looked tragedy in the face and became stronger for it. She insisted upon doing what was good, espoused the truth above all, and defended innocence—even to the point of risking personal harm. Her loyalty and kindness knew no bounds—and she found it within herself to accept that which others refused to touch. She was full of laughter, Meg. Overflowing with joy." A wistful smile spread across his lips as he remembered the many happy moments that they had shared. "She was imaginative and playful, and when she danced…" his voice trailed off as he recalled the many time he had watched her practice in the firelight, dazzled by the moonbeams that would bounce off her hair. "Oh…when she danced, the angels wept for a beauty they knew they could never possess."

Meg watched as the ghost extolled her mother's virtues, amazed by what she was seeing and hearing. His eyes had grown soft, and his voice had hushed into a golden whisper. Leaning in closer to hear him, she found herself hanging on his every word.

"I had promised her once, in jest, that we would find precious gems hidden in a cave in the woods," Erik continued. "She teased me mercilessly afterward that I promised her rubies that never materialized. But what want did _I_ have for rubies when your mother was the greatest treasure that could ever be found on this earth? And I had _found_ her. I had found her…" his voice faded as once again, he was overcome by memories.

Meg was silent for a moment more as she tried to reconcile this vision of her mother—a side of her she had never seen. The ghost spoke of a girl with a taste for adventure, and a conviction for doing what was right. This was the type of girl Meg had always wanted to be—the type of girl who cared not for what others thought her place was, because she was too busy making her _own_ place in the world. This was a girl Meg had never known—but the _ghost_ had known her. And it was clear that he had loved her.

"You _loved_ my mother," Meg said aloud, more a statement than a question, because the truth was as clear to her as a cloudless summer day.

The ghost looked at her, stricken, and in the dim lantern light, Meg could see the tears that threatened at the corners of his eyes. He drew in a harsh breath and shook his head as if to deny, but then his eyelids closed and he released a sigh as he whispered a single word.

"Yes."

"And she loved you…," Meg added.

"Once," the ghost responded, his shoulders hunching forward, his head resting on his chest.

"Then you _are_ my father…," Meg concluded, hope entering into her voice.

"No," Erik insisted with a single forceful word.

"But," Meg pressed, confused by his revelations, "if you loved her and she loved you, what happened?"

 _What happened?_ Erik played her question again in his head. What happened?

Too much—not enough. So much more than she could possibly understand. So much less than what was needed. Certainly, more than he cared to think about right now—for what did it matter? Whatever happened, he had lost. He had lost _her_. And Giry had won…

"Your actual father happened," Erik told her mirthlessly. "When he met her, he fell in love instantly, and she…she was powerless to resist him."

"But…," Meg shook her head in disbelief, "she loved you and then she just chose _him_ over you?"

"Is it _so_ hard to believe, Little Giry?" Erik responded bitterly. "Your father had wealth and status, and the blessing of a handsome face. It is only natural that your mother would be swayed by such a man. And" he added grudgingly, "He _was_ a good man. He _did_ truly love her."

"But so did you," Meg countered. "I can tell that. I just don't understand how she could have loved another man when she already had the love of a good man."

"Are you so sure, Little Giry," Erik asked with a guarded expression, "That I _am_ a good man?"

Meg looked at him directly and answered. "Yes."

Erik's heart skipped a beat as Meg's crystal blue eyes suddenly held all the resolve and passion that had always filled Annie's soulful dark orbs. She accepted him without question, the way her mother once had—her idealistic mind unable to see the darkness even as it was laid out right before her.

"You," Erik said, his voice thick with the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes, "Are more like your mother than you think, Little Giry."

Meg shook her head and said, "If I was her, I would not have made the same choice."

"Oh, but Meg," Erik smiled sadly, "I pray that you would. For your mother chose light—and she chose happiness."

"And now," Meg responded, "she is so unlike the girl you described, I fear she has neither light _nor_ happiness."

"She has _you_ ," Erik told her. "And you are a greater treasure than I could ever have given her," he added, recalling the dim fate suffered by the life that they had created together.

Meg released a heavy sigh, rising from the settee. "I should probably go. I promised Alain I would meet him in the park for a picnic lunch, and if I do not arrive soon, he will come looking for me. Mother would kill me if she knew I had lied to her."

"I will take you back, then," Erik smiled. "For you should go enjoy the day with your friend."

Erik sailed them back across the lake, and then walked Meg to her preferred entrance—the door behind the statue.

"Can I come visit you again tomorrow, after morning rehearsal?" Meg asked, her blue eyes shining as she smiled up at him. "We have a lot of free time before we have to get ready for the evening performance."

"I shall meet you here," Erik nodded, already looking forward to Little Giry's next visit.

 **AN: Little Meg is starting to get some answers... Even while not giving honest answers to her mother. But she'd better be careful. For someone else has discovered some of her secrets...**


	115. Chapter 115

CH 115

Erik was in a foul mood. The day had proven most unproductive after his delightful morning visit with Little Giry. Upon bidding Meg farewell, he'd gone looking for Christine, to discuss the pitfalls of carrying on with the vicomté. He'd proven entirely unsuccessful, however, at locating her. It was a day off at the opera house—there were no rehearsals to attend; no performance for which to prepare. And instead of practicing on her own, striving always to improve upon her naturally exquisite voice, Christine appeared to have gone out.

And if he had to venture a guess, he knew exactly with whom his errant pupil had spent the day.

The vicomté.

Erik's fingers curled into fists as even now the thought filled him with anger. He had been witness to how a young handsome nobleman had changed the course of Annie's career. She had gone from prima ballerina to dance teacher in no time flat! Christine had no business wasting time or talent on friendship or romance when she had a budding career as Paris's premiere opera singer. But she apparently did not feel the same.

Erik had traversed the opera house numerous times, in search of her, but it was not until very late that night that he discovered her in the chapel. Her hands were folded in prayer, but her eyes were trained on the elaborate statue of Saint Cecilia, the patroness of musicians and song.

"Oh papa," Christine murmured as she gazed into the eyes of the kind statue. They were cold and gray, not the vivid blue her father's had been, but the saint's placid expression reminded her very much of the sweet, loving man who had raised her. "So many miracles since you've been gone! How I wish you were here to share my joy! But then you would not have been able to send me the Angel of Music. Oh, how he has made my voice soar! I have sung on the Garnier's stage, papa. And I felt no fear, for I knew you—and my angel—were with me!"

Hearing Christine's words about him did much to cool his temper. She truly did view him as a blessing, and credit him with all of her success. And was it true? Did his presence calm her fears? Perhaps he had been hasty in his conclusion that she was throwing her career away by spending time with the vicmoté. Perhaps it was simply a harmless reconnection of two friends. Perhaps she wasn't even with him today…

"But, papa," Christine continued, her voice growing even more excited. "That miracle is not even the greatest! Do you remember Raoul? The comté's younger son? I had supper with him last night, after the show! And today, he called for me after breakfast and we spent the whole day together!" she revealed, her eyes glistening with joy.

 _Well_ , Erik thought, as he felt his jaw tighten with irritation. _It appears my suspicions were right after all!_

"He has changed so much, papa. He is no longer the arrogant little boy he once was. Actually," she said with a little giggle, "he is not little at all anymore! He has grown tall, and debonair…and so _very_ charming. He kissed my hand, papa," she confessed, her voice a sudden whisper, her gaze set faraway, as if she was reliving the moment in her mind's eye. "And told me I was beautiful. Not that I _sounded_ beautiful, as my angel assures me every time I sing, but that I _was_ …beautiful…" Her voice trailed off as she closed her eyes a moment, inhaling a deep breath. "I can hardly describe the thrill, papa. He made me so… _happy_ ," she added, a smile curling her lips. "Happier than I've been since you went to heaven."

"And does your music not make you happy?" Erik suddenly spat, his voice an icy, spectral call that filled the air, startling his pupil from her reverie.

"Angel!" she gasped, her head snapping up to look all around her. "You're here."

"Yes, Christine," he affirmed, a distinct menace in his tone. "I am here. As you were not after last night's show. Nor were you here earlier today."

"No, Angel," Christine wrapped her arms around herself to fight off the sudden chill that had lodged in her bones. "I wasn't."

"Where were you?" Erik demanded, knowing full well, but still needing to hear her answer.

"With Raoul," Christine answered plainly, casting her eyes down to the floor.

"Did I not forbid you from spending time with him?" Erik's voice boomed, his anger spilling over the frigid calm, causing the girl to flinch.

"A…angel," Christine responded quietly, "Y...y…you agreed that I could have supper with him…."

"One night only," came her angel's angry retort.

"Yes, but I fell asleep that night…,"

"Yet you dined with him last night. And then you spent all of today with him."

Wordlessly, Christine only nodded.

"What were you doing, anyway?" Erik demanded.

"We…," Christine mumbled, "we went for a ride in the country."

"I see," Erik snapped, trying unsuccessfully to hold in his rage. "And how much of that ride in the country did you spend practicing?"

"None," Christine said in a small voice, shaking her head.

"Did you sing even one note?" Erik pressed.

"No, Angel," Christine admitted.

"Well," Erik huffed in annoyance. "Sounds like a _beautiful_ day."

Christine closed her eyes tightly and swallowed hard as the word that had brought her so much pleasure just a few hours earlier now caused redness to burn her cheeks.

"I am sorry, angel…," Christine began.

"You should be sorry," Erik responded. "Not only did you disobey my direct orders, Christine," he added, "You betrayed your art."

"Oh angel," Christine shook her head, her eyes shooting open wide in alarm, "No. I meant no betrayal. Only…"

"Only what?" Erik spat. "A brief dalliance with the handsome young nobleman? A short respite from the work you have yet to do? Because make no mistake, Christine. Any time you spend on him is not meant to last."

"It was only to be a day off…" Christine interjected.

"There are no days off from music!" Erik roared, stopping Christine cold. "Music is a fickle lover, Christine," he added, his voice calmer and more measured. "demanding your constant dedication and singular devotion. It craves _all_ of your attention, tolerating _no_ distractions. I believed I had made myself clear on that subject."

"You did, Angel," Christine nodded. "You made yourself very clear."

"And yet," Erik pressed. "You have twice disobeyed me, disobeyed your _music_ , in favor of the vicomté. Why?"

"Because," Christine began, hardly able to express motivations that she did not fully understand herself, "when I am with him, I do not feel…alone."

Erik set his jaw tightly, and swallowed hard. It seemed the young pup would prove to be more of a problem than even he had anticipated. A problem that must be eliminated for Christine's career to advance. And it had to advance, for if it did not, all would be lost. "You are never alone, Christine," Erik informed her. "For I am here with you. Do you doubt that?"

"No, angel," Christine nodded, looking repentant and forlorn. "I know you are there. I do not doubt you."

"But do you trust me?" he pressed, sensing that she was about to relent.

"I do."

"Then you must cease trifling with this boy," Erik insisted in no uncertain terms. "He will only keep your mind off of what is truly important. Prevent you from accomplishing the work you must do. And Christine, there is so much more work to do! To prepare."

"Prepare?" Christine looked up, confused. "For what?"

"For what will prove the most demanding role of your young life," Erik informed her. "You are performing The Queen of the Night exquisitely, and I daresay Carlotta has been shamed sufficiently that she will not try to interfere and take your role from you again. However, we cannot possibly be satisfied with that."

"We…cannot?" Christine asked, not quite comprehending why she should not be supremely satisfied.

"Most certainly not!" Erik insisted. "Christine, I intend to compose for you the most magnificent of operas!" he told her excitedly. "One that will be written specifically _for_ your glorious instrument. One which will allow your voice to soar far above the heights imagined by Mozart…Puccini…Vivaldi!"

"You…," Christine asked, shocked by his unbelievable words, "are writing me an opera?"

"Yes, child," Erik asserted. "It will be _your_ opera, Christine. Yours and yours alone. No other voice on heaven _or_ earth would ever be able to do it justice. And it will cause you to shine as brightly as a star in the heavens!"

"Angel, I…" Christine responded, still in awe of his generosity. "…I don't know what to say…"

"Say you will stop seeing the vicomté, Christine," Erik responded, without missing a beat. "that you will forget his flighty distractions and belong only to the music. Only to…" Erik's voice trailed off, unable to form the words that were filling his mind. If only Annie had resisted. If only Annie had been able to turn her head away from Giles Giry…

"You," Christine whispered, rendering him breathless as she completed his thought. "I promise, Angel. I will obey. Music shall be my only master—and I shall give myself completely over to your will."

"And you will tell the vicomté he is no longer to call on you?" Erik reiterated.

"I will, angel," Christine nodded, though her resolve did not reach her eyes.

"Then sing for me, Christine," Erik commanded in a triumphal voice, satisfied that he had, at last, achieved his victory. "Sing for me…"

And as Christine's voice took flight, Erik's spirit soared.

* * *

Meg could not sleep. She had spent a wonderful afternoon with Alain, delighting in a tasty picnic in the park, and running and laughing until their hearts were content. And she always enjoyed the company of her auntie Giselle, as she had that night when the lovely redhead had joined them for supper. This had been the off-stage routine for as long as Meg could remember—her mother, Giselle, and Alain—her _family_ gathering to share stories and exchange smiles. But her mother's smiles had always been the hardest to come by, and as Meg lay here in her bed, she thought she might finally understand why.

Someone was missing.

Of course, she had always known that her father had died when she'd still been a babe in arms. She'd long accepted that her mother's frequently vacant gaze and downturned frowns were because she missed him. But now, she wondered…

All these years, could her mother have been missing the _ghost_ instead? Was he the reason for her eternal sadness, her never ending string of black dresses? And if that were the case, might his return mean the end of her mourning? If they loved each other once, could they love each other again?

Meg truly hoped so. She didn't understand everything that had happened to cause her mother to choose her father over the man she'd first loved. But her father was gone and the ghost…well, he was here. Meg loved her mother dearly and she wanted nothing more than to see her happy. Could the ghost be the answer to restoring her light?

She knew that he had chosen her mother as his messenger, but her mother told her that they did not talk. He merely left letters for her to deliver to the managers. But what if they did talk? What would happen if Meg could convince them to speak face to face?

She knew it was no use trying to talk to her mother—she had always been so set in her ways. But the ghost…he said he knew a different side of her. And he did not seem to _enjoy_ being apart from her. Perhaps she could reason with _him,_ and make him see the wisdom of trying to rekindle whatever feelings the two had once shared.

Meg popped up out of her bed, pulling on a robe, and quietly scurried past her mother who had—thankfully—fallen asleep on the settee. She knew it was late, but she had a feeling the ghost would still be awake. And she knew she would find no rest until she talked to him.

She tiptoed out the door to their apartment and ran as fast as her feet would carry her to the statue of Pythia, taking the great marble steps two at a time. She wasted no time slipping behind the sculpture, pressing the mechanism without a second thought, as she knew that at this hour, there would be no one around. When the wall parted to admit her, she barely registered that the lantern she kept just inside was already lit, emitting a soft glow to light her way. Grabbing it from the little niche in the wall, she trudged ahead on her way, the passage having already closed behind her before she heard the sickening cackle.

"Well, well, what have we here?" a startling voice mused in the darkness.

Meg stopped in her tracks and turned slowly, holding her lantern out before her. Standing just inside the entrance was the seedy stagehand her mother had always warned her about. How on earth did _he_ get _here_?

"M…m…monsieur Buquet," Meg greeted him.

" _Monsieur Buquet_ , hmmmm?" he said in return, a hand coming up to cover the stubble on his chin. "Finally a Giry that knows her place. I _like_ the sound of that!" Taking a few steps closer, so that he towered over her, Buquet looked her up and down. "I like the look of it too."

Meg's heart began to pound, and she took several steps backward. "What…" she began, "w…what are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing, little Meg," Buquet responded, again moving closer. "Isn't it past your bedtime, girl?"

"I…" Meg answered, suddenly wishing she was safe and sound in her bed, "I couldn't sleep."

"Awww…" Buquet muttered, shaking his head and clicking his tongue in mock sympathy. "That's too bad. But maybe," he added, reaching out a grimy finger to trace the line of her cheek, "I can be of service."

"N...no!" Meg stammered, taking more steps backward, not liking the sound of his offer one bit.

"I used to help lots of young girls in the night…" Buquet asserted, advancing upon her, a predatory look in his eye. "They were always so very grateful for my ministrations. Thanked me _real_ nice…"

"Stay away from me!" Meg shrieked, terrified now that there was nothing she could do to stop him, if he decided to ignore her.

"Ahhh," Buquet guffawed loudly. "There's the Giry spirit! Do you have the same fire as your mama, little Meg?" he asked, reaching out without warning to grasp her by the shoulder. She tried to wiggle away, but it was no use. The stage hand was too strong. "One day, I'll have to make _her_ scream—just to compare."

Meg stared a moment more at the meaty hand locking her in place. Turning her eyes back to Buquet's she made a final, feeble attempt to stop him. "Monsieur Buquet," she pleaded, her voice hushed and thick with tears, "please…"

"See now Meg," he smirked as he used his free hand to unbuckle his belt, "you're already begging for it."

Out of nowhere, a flash of darker blackness knocked her out of Buquet's grasp and sent her hurtling to the ground. A terrified shout filled the night as she struggled to right herself, using her palms to push herself up to a sitting position.

The dark shadow was upon Buquet, delivering blow after bow of brutal justice.

"You will not touch her, you bastard!" she heard the figure growl, as again and again, his fists rained down terror upon the deserving stagehand. "You will not touch her. She is too good—too pure for the filthy likes of you, you mongrel, you grotesque beast!"

"Look who…" Buquet struggled to force out the words, trying to best his attacker the only way he could, "is calling me a beast. You freak…of nature!"

"I would rather be a freak of nature," Meg's dark savior spat lifting Buquet's head in his hands bringing it up against his, "than an abomination who preys on children!" And with the force of his entire body, he slammed Buquet's head down against the cold hard stone beneath them, never noticing the spray of hot liquid that stained his face.

Buquet did not say another word after that, his utterances limited to only muffled grunts and groans. But that did not stop the ghost from continuing to exact just the sort of justice he knew the man deserved. Meg watched as he continued to beat the man, his fists delivering blow after savage blow. When even the grunts had stopped, Meg crawled over to the man she had come to know.

"This is for all the times you beat me, you cretin!" she heard him mutter under his breath as he continued to pummel the unconscious man. "For all the lashes of the whip. This is for Annie!" He sobbed. "You were never fit to crawl on the ground she walked on. My Annie… _my Annie_ …"

"Ph…ph…phantom…" Meg called quietly, trying to draw his attention away from the unmoving man beneath him. Josef Buquet was beyond feeling the blows. He might even already be dead. But still the ghost had not stopped. "Phantom," Meg cried louder this time, but he could not hear her over the din of his grief.

"Papa!" she screamed this time, and instantly, he stopped.

Turning quickly at the sound of her call, his hands sprayed grime and dirt across her face. The sight of Little Giry, stained by the leavings of this filthy man, pulled him out of the rage that had consumed him. _Dear God, the blood! Why did things always end in blood?_

"Meg?" he answered, his voice soft and questioning. Somehow, in his haze of violence, he had forgotten she was there.

Suddenly it was all too much. Meg felt the strength leave her body and her face dissolved into tears. "Papa," she cried again, reaching out to him. "Papa!"

"Oh, Meg," Erik sobbed, closing the distance between them and taking her firmly into his arms.

Meg buried her head into his chest and wept, hot tears soaking through his shirt, loud sobs filling the night. "I was so afraid!" she sobbed as Erik held her tightly to him, gently stroking her hair.

"I'm so sorry, my darling," he whispered, his heart splintering into a thousand shards at the sound of her tears. "I'm so sorry…"

Cradling her firmly in his arms, Erik rose to his full height. "Hush, my dear Little Giry," he whispered in his most soothing voice as he began to hum a tune he used to sing to her when she was just a baby. "I'm here."

"I know," she nodded into his chest, wrapping her arms even more tightly around his neck.

"I will keep you safe," he promised, knowing that if it meant giving his own life, he would do anything to protect this perfect little girl.

"I know…you will…," she hiccupped through her sobs, nuzzling her head more tightly into him. "Papa…."

* * *

Meg clung to Erik with all her strength as he carried her back to the small apartment she shared with her mother. He continued to hum to her, his rich baritone soft and soothing, until finally, she succumbed to sleep. Even in her slumber, however, she did not release him, her dainty fingers clutching his back, as if he were all the safety she knew in this world.

He exited the tunnels as he neared the opera house's living quarters, knowing, from experience, that there was little chance of anyone milling about at this late hour. Standing before the door to ballet mistress's apartments, he considered, for a moment, just leaving Meg at the entry. The thought fled his mind at once, however, because he could never treat Meg so coldly. She meant far too much to him for that.

Shifting the resting girl in his arms, Erik knocked on the door gently, and it was but a moment before he heard a shuffling inside, telling him Annie was about to answer.

"Madame Giry," Erik said as the bleary-eyed ballet teacher opened the door.

"Erik?" She responded sleepily, shaking her head as if she could not comprehend why he was standing in her doorway. Realization hit her, however, when she saw the sleeping bundle in his arms. "Meg?" She said, alarm entering her voice.

"Shhhh!" He hissed, pushing past her into the living quarters. "Or you will wake her and everyone else in this opera house." Kneeling by the settee, he gently set Meg down, reaching out to smooth the tangle of her curls away from her forehead. "And I assure you, after what she has suffered tonight, she needs her rest."

Her heart racing, Annie pushed the door closed, and rushed to her daughter's side. "Erik, what are you talking…." Her voice trailed off in a gasp when she got a look at she daughter's face. "Erik?" She asked, her voice shaking in terror.

"Not her blood, I assure you," he told her, looking into eyes for a moment, so she could tell he was serious. "She is unharmed. Physically," he added, looking away from her, and back to the poor child who had come so close to having her innocence shattered by that heinous man tonight.

"Erik what is going on?" Annie demanded. "What is happening? Why was Meg with you? She was supposed to be sleeping in her bed!"

"Well, I suppose Meg had other ideas about that," he responded dryly. "I can only imagine where she gets _that_ from." When Annie said nothing, her eyes pleading with him for an explanation, Erik sighed. "I was returning to my home and I heard a commotion in one of the tunnels. When I went to investigate, who did I find but _Yusef_ attempting to force himself on your daughter."

"No!" Annie gasped, her hands covering her mouth.

"Yes," Erik insisted. "Did you think it wise, Madame Giry, to let a man of his character remain in the opera house's employ? Have you forgotten everything from…those days?" Erik asked, implying so much more with the words he spoke.

"I remember _everything_ , Erik!" Annie snapped, pointedly. "But what could I do? The managers do not listen to me. It is not as it was when…"

"Your _husband_ was alive?" Erik asked, knowing it was true, but still feeling great disdain at any reference to Giles Giry.

"That's right," Annie agreed, swallowing hard. "Things were different…then. Yusef—Joseph—whatever he's calling himself—would not have lasted a day if Giles was around. But these managers…." Looking back at her daughter, blood and dirt smudged on her face, she quickly returned to the more important topic at hand. "Where is he now, Erik?"

"Still the tunnels," Erik answered. "Maybe dead." He added nonchalantly. "He was rather close to it when I left him. That's his blood on her face," Erik added, going back, for a moment, to the last time he saw a Giry woman he loved covered in blood. "You should know that with me all things end in blood."

"The world would be better off without him," Annie said, rushing into the kitchen to get a damp rag, to wash the remnants of that evil creature off her daughter's face, choosing to ignore Erik's comment entirely.

"How could you not have warned your daughter about him, Madame?" Erik demanded, his fingers curling into a fist in his frustration. "You knew what he was!"

"I did warn my daughter about him!" Annie insisted, angered now by Erik's insinuations, as she brought the rag gently to her daughter's forehead. "I watched over her and all the girls, making sure that swine never got too close. But how did she manage to find the tunnels, Erik?" Annie demanded, turning her guilt back around on him. "Did you show her your underground world when you enlisted her to do your bidding?"

"By her own admission," Erik retorted, "she has known about the tunnels for years!" When Annie just stared back at him in surprise, he added, "or did you not know that, Madame Giry? How did it slip your watchful eye?"

Annie looked down at Meg, unable to answer Erik as her own grief consumed her. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks as she continued to wipe her daughter's brow. What else did she not know about her own child? What secrets did her young one keep?

Erik watched Annie in silence, using every ounce of strength he had to keep himself from touching her. He wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms and promise her that everything would be alright. That he was here for her—and for Meg—and he would never allow anything to hurt them ever again. Kneeling there, beside her daughter, her hair hanging loosely about her slumped shoulders, she looked so very much like the girl she once was—the young woman who had stolen his heart so many years ago. Did she realize that she was still in possession of his very soul? Did she care?

 _Of course not_ , Erik chided himself. She'd stopped loving him many years ago, after making the realization that, with him, all things ended in blood. Looking on as she continued to wipe her daughter's forehead, he was reminded that nothing had changed. He might intend to do all in his power to protect them from harm, but look at what had happened tonight? Blood. More blood.

"I…" Erik began in a hollow voice. "I must go tend…to Yusef."

"By tend," Annie responded, never looking say from her little girl, "I hope you mean feed his filthy body to the sewer rats!"

"Perhaps, Madame Giry," Erik responded, remembering the ruthlessness with which she had dispatched the master and then dragged Erik all the way to safety on her stepfather's farm. Truly something remained of the girl she once was. "Perhaps…" he uttered, as he let himself out the door.

 **AN: Christine is starting to discover what a bad idea it is to disobey the Angel of Music! And what a harrowing event for poor Little Giry. But on the positive side, her phantom kept her safe. And Erik and Annie were forced to talk. Oh, and Buquet might be lying dead in the tunnels. Better hurry, Erik, to take out the trash!**


	116. Chapter 116

CH 116:

Annie had just managed to doze off, her head resting against the side of the chair, her fingers still tightly clutched around her daughter's hand when the nightmares began.

"No!" came the first scream. "No! Stop!"

Annie's eyes flew open to find Meg thrashing back and forth in her half-asleep state, her eyes scrunched tightly shut, her breathing coming in short, hard gasps.

"No, please… _please_!" she sobbed, pulling her hand from her mother's grasp as she tried to fend off her imagined attacker.

"Meg," Annie called quietly but firmly as she took hold of her daughter's trembling shoulders.

"Let go of me!" Meg whimpered. "Let go… _please_!"

Annie's heart shattered to hear her daughter desperate pleas, and she knew she had to wake her now, before she could relive even another second of this nightmare.

"Meg Giry!" Annie called firmly, giving her a little shake. "Wake up!"

Meg's eyes shot open and she sat up with a loud gasp. Only one word escaped her lips as she crossed the threshold of consciousness.

"Papa?" she cried, her eyes wild with desperation, looking right at Annie, but apparently, unable yet to see.

"No Meg," Annie shook her head sadly. "Not papa. But I am here…,"

"Oh, mama!" Meg choked out a sob, and threw her arms around her mother's neck.

"Hush, my child," Annie whispered, enfolding her daughter into her loving arms as Meg's tears dampened her dressing gown. "It's alright. Everything's alright," she cooed, rocking her gently, rubbing large, soothing circles on her back.

"I…" Meg hiccupped as her tears finally died down and she could find her voice again. "I'm sorry Mother… Buquet… You warned me about him…"

"Meg," Annie said adamantly, pulling back a bit so that she could look her daughter in the eye. "You have absolutely no reason to apologize. Buquet tried to hurt _you_. _He_ was wrong—not you. Do you understand that?"

Nodding weakly, Meg answered, "Yes, mother…"

"You must never believe otherwise!" Annie continued, her eyes blazing with anger. "He was an evil man to attempt to touch a child in that way." Looking away, she added, "But then I always knew…"

"The ghost saved me, mama," Meg said in a small voice. "He…stopped him."

Closing her eyes and swallowing hard, Annie nodded. "Yes, Meg, I know," she said in a quiet voice. "Erik told me what happened."

"Erik?" Meg asked.

"That is the ghost's name," Annie told her plainly, turning back to look Meg in the eye.

"I…," Meg looked down at her hands. "I called him 'papa…'"

"Yes," Annie nodded, tears forming in her eyes. "You _would_ call him...papa…" Suddenly, the emotions were too much, and Annie covered her face with her hands to prevent Meg from seeing the tears that were now running down her cheek.

"Mother," Meg implored softly, reaching out to place a hand on her arm. "Tell me. Please."

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Annie knew she could no longer hide the truth… and yet she was reluctant to tell her impressionable daughter everything. Reaching into her robe pocket, she pulled out a tissue with which she dried her eyes. Then, grasping her daughter's hand gently, she began.

"As you know, Meg, both of my parents died when I was a child. I was lonely and miserable living on my stepfather's farm, dreaming only of the day when I could escape. When I was about your age, a travelling fair came to town. It was run by the gypsies and I desperately wanted to go. So, I snuck out one night, after my stepfather had passed out in a drunken state."

At her daughter's look of amazement, Annie had to chuckle. "That's right, Meg," she said, patting her knee. "You are not the first girl to sneak out when she was supposed to be sleeping in her bed. Anyway, the fair boasted a great many marvels—sights and sounds and aromas unlike anything I had ever known before. And it was there that I met Erik."

Her gaze darkening in sadness, Annie continued her tale, "It was horrible, Meg. You see, Erik's face is very badly deformed—that's why he wears the mask. But they were treating him as an animal—locking him in a filthy cage—beating him whenever he complained—and forcing him to reveal his face to jeering crowds night after night. They called him a human oddity—Satan's Own Son. At every show, the audience would scream and flee in hysteria when they saw his face. He was only a boy of my age, Meg. Your age now. You can imagine how mortifying it was!"

Meg nodded slowly, horrified at the story her mother was telling. How could people be so cruel?

"He was angry, and he was bitter," Annie continued, "and he had learned to see himself as the demon the gypsy masters told him he was. But I saw differently. I saw a boy who was alone and miserable—not so different, really, from me.

"And so, every night, after the fair had closed, I would sneak in to see him. He was wary at first, but soon realized that I meant him no harm. I brought him food to supplement the slop that the gypsies would feed him, and we would talk into the night. He would play for me on his violin, and I would dance, and laugh, and just rejoice at being in his presence. It wasn't long," she added wistfully, "before I saw him smile…"

"After a few weeks, we got word that the Gypsy camp would be moving. I knew I had to break Erik out. I could not stand for him to leave with those horrible men. And selfishly, I could not bear to lose him. But before I could do anything, we were caught. When the gypsy master found me in Erik's tent, the horrible man threw me against a pole, knocking me out. When I came to, all I could see was him beating Erik. Blow after blow, he hit Erik, until my dear friend was barely conscious—barely alive. I knew that if I didn't stop him, the gypsy master would kill him! So, I grabbed the knife that I carried with me always for protection and I…I stabbed him. I _killed_ him, Meg."

Meg's eyes were wide, and her mouth had fallen open in shock as she continued to listen to her mother talk.

"I didn't mean to," Annie quickly added, her forehead knotted in distress. "My actions that night haunt me even to this day. But at the time, I didn't even think about what I was doing. I only knew that if I didn't stop him, Erik would be dead. And I had to protect my only friend.

"I dragged him away that night, back to my stepfather's farm. I cared for his wounds in an old, forgotten barn, and he lived there, for a time. Until the night my stepfather...well, never mind what _he_ did," Annie amended, not wishing to dredge up any further nightmares for Meg. "Let's just say that he tried to do something that justified Erik killing _him_ in order to protect _me_."

"Mother no!" Meg cried, squeezing her mother's hand tightly, instinctively knowing what had happened, even though her mother did not admit it in so many words.

"He _tried_ , Meg," Annie repeated, "But Erik saved me—snapping the man's neck to protect me from harm. With my stepfather dead, we knew we had to run. So, we packed a few things—all that we could fit into two knapsacks—and we disappeared into the forest, Erik protecting me the entire way. We found a hidden cave that we made our home, deep in the forest in the South of France. It was beautiful, Meg—with a rushing waterfall and a hidden lake. We stayed there for about five years, living simply, performing at the closest town market to earn money. He was the Masked Musician, and I was the Wild Dancing Rose. And during that time—that sweet, idyllic time where the only thing that mattered to either of us was the other—The Masked Musician and the Wild Dancing Rose fell in love."

"I was content to live the rest of my life with him in that cave, Meg," Annie said, a melancholy smile spreading over her lips. "I had everything I could possibly want—a home, a job that actually paid me for doing something I enjoyed, and the boy I had loved—probably from the first moment I laid eyes on him—the boy who had grown into the most remarkable man. He could take my breath away with just one look from his glowing golden eyes. I was happy, Meg—happier than I had been in my entire life. Of course, Erik always wanted more for me. 'One day, you will dance on the Paris stage, Annie,' he always told me. 'You were made to be a star!' But I didn't care about the Paris stage, or about being a star. As long as I had Erik, I had _everything_."

"But what happened?" Meg asked confused, not understanding how two people who loved each other the way her mother described could end up the way they were now.

"One of the gypsies from the fair found Erik at the market. Terrified for our safety—for _my_ safety—Erik insisted we leave our cave and run away to Paris. It was one of the hardest things in my life, Meg, leaving our little home. But as I said, if I had Erik, I had everything. So once again, we left our world behind to start over anew."

"Paris, however, was a much harder place than we had realized. When we arrived, we could not find a place to live. No one would rent a room to an unmarried couple. It was scandalous—looked down upon—and we were faced with the possibility of being homeless. Until I met your father on the street.

"Giles Giry was his name—and he was kind, wealthy and helpful. Erik hated him on sight, but I knew he could be our only chance. Faced with another refusal, I begged him to help my sick _brother_ and me," Annie's face flushed with shame as she admitted the falsehood with which she began her relationship with her future husband. "Yes, it was a lie, but it got us a place to stay. However, it also infuriated Erik that another man gave us what _he_ had not been able to provide. Erik wanted to care for me, and provide for every one of my needs.

"We decided to get married, so that we could do away with the farce of Erik being my brother. But before he would marry me, Erik wanted to have a job so that, in his words, he could be a _real_ husband to me. I thought he was crazy, but I knew it was important to him, so I agreed to wait. I soon got a job—because as you know, your father was not only kind, wealthy and helpful, but he also worked at the Paris Opera House. However, he was not there the day I auditioned, and I _did_ secure a position in the ballet corps on my own merits," Annie proudly revealed. "Erik, on the other hand, was not able to find work. Everywhere he went, he was turned away, because of the deformity of his face, and the need he had to wear a mask. It was not fair; it was not right.

"For a time, he tried to be content with the fact that I was dancing at the opera—'living my dream,' as he put it, when really, I was living _his_ dream. _My_ dream had only ever been loving him, and I had been living that dream since the moment I found him. But still, he strove to find work that would allow him to support me—and perhaps, one day, a family.

"Erik did finally find that job—only it was not in Paris. He was hired to help build an opera house in Monaco with the great Charles Garnier," Annie told her, her chest puffing up unconsciously as even now she took pride in Erik's talents. "Erik had long admired his work—especially after finding the tunnels here behind this opera house. Working with Charles would be a dream come true for Erik, and I was all too eager to pack my bags and follow him to Monaco. But Erik wouldn't have it. He insisted I stay here and continue to dance. The separation would only be for a short time, he promised. Then he would come home to me and we would finally be husband and wife."

Annie closed her eyes and swallowed hard against the tears that threatened once again. "But it was not to be, Meg. He left for Monaco, and we wrote to each other every day. I was miserable without him—unable to eat, unable to sleep—barely able to dance. But I maintained a strong facade in my letters, because I wanted to support him living _his_ dream. And Erik was so successful in Monaco, that Charles sent him to Persia, to build a palace for the shah. He asked me if I was alright with it—swearing that this would be the last job—the job that would earn him enough money to come home and marry me. How could I say no when I knew how much it meant to him?"

"Oh, but I wish I had…," Annie's voice turned thick with sadness. "I _so_ wish I had found the strength to have told him no. For you see, once he left for Persia, the letters stopped coming. I was devastated and lonely, and terrified—and I had actually made plans to travel to Persia to find him and bring him home myself. Until…." Annie's voice trailed off and she gazed wretchedly into the distance.

"Until what, mother?" Meg encouraged her, needing to know how this story ended.

"Until the day I got a letter informing me that Erik was dead," Annie told her plainly, leaving out the grisly details.

"Dead?" Meg gasped. "But what? How…?"

"It was the shah. Erik had done something to anger him, and the shah threw him in the dungeon. Not content to simply make Erik suffer, he decided to torment me too by lying and saying that Erik had died, knowing that in the end, my pain would only hurt Erik more."

"Mama," Meg whispered, squeezing her mother's hand again as she read the agony on her face. "I'm sorry. How…how did you manage?"

"Through the kindness of your father," Annie said simply. "Giles was the only one who knew the truth about Erik—that he was not my brother but my fiancé. Your father was a dear friend to me, supporting me the whole time Erik was away. He had even agreed to go with me on my trip to Persia—not wanting me to go to such a dangerous country alone. When I thought Erik had died, your father is the only reason I survived. He brought me back to his home and cared for me night and day—forcing me to eat—encouraging me to rest—making sure I got the quiet I needed to grieve. He was my rock, Meg, and he was the only reason I made it through. After a long time, he even made me smile again. Eventually, slowly, though I didn't think it was possible to ever feel anything for anyone again, I grew to love him.

"It was not the same kind of love I felt for Erik. I knew it would be impossible to feel that kind of love again in my life—and I didn't even want to. That part of my heart still belonged to Erik—it always would. But your father brought sunshine—and joy—back into my life. And after all the pain, Meg, I so desperately wanted to be happy. So, when he asked me to marry him, how could I say no?"

"It took us a while, but eventually, we were happy. And then we had you, and you were just the light of our lives. You were a creature of the sun—just like your father—and he and I absolutely basked in your glory. And then," Annie swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. "Erik came back."

"Just like that?" Meg gasped again, shocked at how many turns her mother's story was taking.

"Yes," she nodded. "He had finally been able to escape from Persia, and came straight home to me, with plans of making me his wife, like he had promised so many years before. But I was already married…"

"Oh…" Meg whispered, beginning to understand the tension between her mother and the ghost.

"I don't know if I can explain what I was feeling in that moment, Meg. It was as if the heavens had opened, granting me the greatest gift—my dearest love alive again, wanting nothing more than to take me in his arms and finish what we had started when we were but children. But at the same time, it was as if I was trapped in hell, because I already belonged to another man. And the true agony was that my husband, your father, was _not_ a brute or a coward. Giles Giry was a good man. And _exceptional_ man. He was my savior, and I _loved_ him. I truly did. Yet, he was not Erik."

Closing her eyes and breathing deeply, she went on with her tale. "Erik and I did not act on our love. We knew it would be wrong while I belonged to another. But neither could we bear being apart. So, he remained beneath the opera house, near the lake, that I just recently found out you've managed to re-discover on your own." Annie paused briefly here, raising an eyebrow at Meg, who lowered her gaze in guilt. When she knew her daughter had gotten her unspoken message, she continued. "We saw each other every day—talking, putting back in place the scattered pieces of our lost time. But it was not easy to be so close and not be together. Pain colored our every interaction.

"When I was not with him, Erik spent his time watching the goings on at the opera house. His hatred for Giles had bubbled over—seeing him not as the man who literally saved my life, but as the thief who had stolen his. He went out of his way to cause trouble for your father—even though I begged him not to—playing petty pranks, and thus the opera ghost was born. The ghost was merely an irritation until the day of the accident." Annie closed her eyes against the bitter memory.

"What accident, mother?" Meg demanded.

"After one of Erik's pranks, I had finally had enough. I went down to see him and admonished him for causing Giles such grief. I had come to terms with the fact that having Erik back was not good for my marriage, and I told him he should leave—that I had to choose between them, and that I chose my husband. In a daze, I stormed out of the tunnels, out of the opera house, right into the street, where a carriage was barreling forward. Giles saw me, and ran out to push me to safety—but the carriage hit him instead. That was how your father died, Meg. Sacrificing his life for mine."

Meg swallowed hard, not knowing what to say. She had known that her father was killed by a coach, but she hadn't known the situation leading up to it. Her heart broke for her poor father, losing his life as he was trying to be heroic and save the woman he loved. But it ached also for her poor _mother,_ feeling, all these years, as if his death was her fault.

"Erik was just as shocked by Giles's death as the rest of the opera house," Annie continued, her voice stony and cold. "He stayed to help me through the loss. He supported me—in secret. He cared for me. He wanted to be there for me—to listen to me talk about your father…to hold me as I cried. But that's not what I wanted. I was so stricken with guilt—with self-hatred—that I just wanted to escape. And Erik was where I ran. When I was with him, I didn't have to remember the sound of the carriage careening toward your father. When I closed my eyes to kiss Erik, I didn't have to see the vision of your father covered in blood. And when I heard Erik's voice, I didn't have to hear your father's last words, telling me I was the best thing that ever happened to him. Telling me he loved me. I looked upon myself as a curse to your father—a woman who could never have loved him the way he deserved to be loved—a faithless wife who eventually brought about his death. And so, I reveled in my time with Erik—never facing the grief I still felt for your father—never allowing myself to feel the all-consuming anger I harbored at myself and at Erik for unintentionally hurting the man who never should have been hurt—the purest soul I had ever known.

"Eventually, I was spending every night beneath the opera house with Erik—in his home beside the lake that reminded me so much of our idyllic cave in the forest. I brought you with me—certain, at first, that he would reject you as Giles's daughter. But that is not what happened. Erik fell in _love_ with you—almost instantaneously—just as surely as I had fallen in love with him all those years ago at the gypsy camp. He cared for you; he sang to you; and when you took your first steps, Meg, they were into his arms. And even then, when you spoke you called him papa."

"I did?" Meg asked surprised, suddenly understanding this strange connection she had always felt to the man in black.

"You did. Oh, I was not happy about that. I railed at Erik, demanding that we always make sure you knew Giles was your father—but how could you really know, Meg? You were so young when Giles died. Erik had become the only true father you'd ever known."

"So why didn't you get married then, mother?" Meg asked, bewildered at how, after finding each other again, they still managed to wind up apart.

"Because I did not allow myself to fully give in to loving Erik. I tried so hard to keep my emotions out of it, telling myself it was nothing serious. That I was still Giles's wife. But I was a fool. Regardless of what I told myself, I was falling deeper and deeper in love with Erik every day—as he was with me— _and_ you. We were a family, even if it was not official, and there came a night when even I had to admit to him that I loved him. You should have seen the joy in his eyes when I said those three little words—the most powerful words in any language. They can lift up and they can destroy. And they did both that night."

"I don't understand…" Meg said, shaking her head.

"I became ill, Meg, violently so," Annie told her, trying to keep the story of that night as devoid of details as possible. "When Erik got me to a doctor, we found out that I was in the process of losing a baby. A baby I hadn't even known existed. Erik's baby."

Meg's eyes grew wide once again, the weight of this knowledge slowly settling in with her. "Oh," she mouthed, wordlessly, still trying to absorb the enormity of the situation her mother was describing.

"It was a horrible night, Meg. Neither of us had known the baby existed, but we were both instantly consumed by grief. Erik wanted nothing more than to comfort me—to heal my body and my soul, denying his own feelings of loss. But I could not accept it, Meg. My anger—my guilt—grew into a rage. I screamed at him, Meg," Annie told her, trembling as she remembered the things she said that night. "Things I never should have said—things I didn't truly believe, except in my wounded state. I told him he was the reason my life was so miserable. I blamed him for your father's death—for our baby's death. And then I left him. I walked out of his home as he crawled behind me on the ground, clutching at my skirts, _begging_ me to stay. I looked right at him, Meg, and I shut the door. I _left_ him."

"Oh, mother…," Meg sighed, her heart hurting for her dearest mother—for the man she knew as papa.

"I went back to my apartment—this apartment," she gestured to the room they were in, "and I slept as the dead. When I woke in the morning, I was horrified by what I did. My mind was clear—I was mortified. I ran as fast as my weakened body would let me back to Erik's home, to beg him for forgiveness, only to find it empty. He had fled, but he left this behind." Annie reached into her nightgown and fiddled with the chain she always wore around her chest. Pulling it out from behind the fabric, she showed Meg what was on the end of the chain.

"A ring…" Meg exclaimed, dazzled by the beauty of the sparkly black diamonds that surrounded the exquisite topaz.

"Yes, a ring—with the center stone the same color as Erik's eyes. I found it that day, at the very edge of the lake. I can never be sure, but always I wondered if he meant to use this ring to propose to me once again—if he wanted us to finally be married. My last, final chance at the happiness of which I had always dreamed. But I pushed him away." Annie's story done, she once again buried her face in her hands, exhaustion marring her features.

Meg was stunned by the enormity of her mother's tale. So much about their life made sense now. Her mother's constant sadness—the endless string of black dresses. They did signify loss—but so much more loss that Meg had ever guessed. Her mother had not only lost her husband, but also the love of her life, and their… _child_.

It was strange to think that she might have once had a sibling, that her mother had carried a child that belonged to another man—a man to whom she had not been married. But knowing the full story, Meg could certainly not hold it against her. What her mother had done, she had done out of sadness…a sadness that consumed her still, and always would until she made things right with Erik.

"Mother," Meg said resolutely.

Annie looked up from her sorrow into her daughter's crystal blue eyes. "Yes, my child?"

"You need to go to Erik," Meg told her in no uncertain terms. "You need to fix this. You need to tell him you still love him."  
"Are my feelings that plain to you, Meg?" Annie asked, shaking her head ruefully.

"Your misery is clear," Meg told her. "It has been clear as long as I can remember. You need to tell him you want to be with him again—that you want us to be a family again."

"Meg," Annie shook her head. "What if that is not what _he_ wants?" she asked. "He has been back so long and he has never made any overtures to me. He only uses me to do his bidding around the opera house. Christine is his primary concern now. Not me. He no longer loves me, Meg…"

"How do you know that?" she demanded.

"He merely uses me as his messenger. He has had so much opportunity to try to resolve our relationship—to regain what was lost. He has not tried. He does not wish it."

"Mother, I think he does—but maybe he thinks _you_ don't."

Annie rolled her eyes at her daughter's insistence. "Meg, there is so much about this that you cannot possibly understand."

"I understand," Meg pressed, "that I have never seen you without that chain around your neck. Mother, you've been wearing his ring close to your heart for the past ten years!" she added incredulously. "Don't you think he should know that?"

"Meg," Annie asked, shaking her head at her daughter's words. "How did a little girl get so wise?"

"Mother," she sighed. "You should know by now that I am not so very little," Meg responded, making her mother gasp. "Besides, you deserve to be happy."

 _Be happy, Antoinette…. You deserve to be happy._

Annie looked incredulously at her daughter, astounded at how much of both her character and that of her late husband had combined to create this beautiful, magical creature.

"I love you, Meg," Annie said, gathering her daughter into a tearful embrace. "I love you so much!"

 **AN: Finally, mother and daughter have a heart to heart. Long overdue, I think! But now Meg is beginning to understand her bond with the man in the mask, and why it was so natural for her to call him papa. I think she gave Annie some very good advice... lets hope she takes it!**


	117. Chapter 117

**AN: Hello! Thank you all for the reviews! The action is picking up pretty quick in this story now. (About time, right?) Anyway, I do try my best to respond to everyone's reviews, but I CANNOT respond to guest reviews, so, to my guest reviewers, I just want to say thanks for reading and thanks for your support! :)**

Ch 117

Erik leapt out of the boat and angrily tied it to dock, nearly snapping the rope with the force of his hands. He stormed into his living area, raking his fingers through his hair in frustration. He had not tarried overly long while delivering Meg to her mother. He had hurried right back to the spot where that miscreant gypsy dog had attempted to attack Meg. But he had found no body of which to dispose. Yusef was gone!

He had no idea how it could have happened. He had been so sure the bastard had been at death's door when he scooped Meg into his arms and carried her to safety. And he had only been away long enough to make sure she was safe and to explain what had happened. He had not trusted himself to remain in the ballet mistress's presence any longer. The raw vulnerability on her face had made him ache to fold her into his arms and whisper soft promises that everything would be alright. In those moments where worry etched itself across her features, he could not put it past himself to fall to his knees and beg her to let him comfort her—to let him love her. As he once had. As he did still. _Dear God, Annie,_ his tortured spirit screamed inside his mind. _How did it come to this?_

But of course, he knew how. And this incident with Yusef was the exact sort of thing that was at the root of it all. She had grown weary of all things between them ending in blood. She had told him so plainly on that night—so many years ago—when the babe they had created had perished on a wave of scarlet regret. He had heard her every word—and he had kept his distance, until that traitor Kevah convinced him that it was not truly Annie's heart that spoke those words, but her grief.

And yet, once again, he had brought blood upon them. Even this night, as she had gazed upon her daughter's brow, stained with the blood of her attacker, her first instinct had been to blame him—to _accuse_ him of showing Meg the tunnels and luring her into his peculiar world of darkness. And while it was true that Meg had found the tunnels by herself years ago, certainly it was her relationship with him that had given her reason to slip into his hidden world in the middle of the night while she should have been sleeping in her bed. _Had_ he been unintentionally luring her to him. Was he to blame for the very same fate he had nearly been too late to save her from?

Erik raised his palms to either side of his temple. His head was throbbing and his heart was beating wildly in his chest. He knew he should go—should leave this place and never return. He had only ever brought bitterness and sorrow to Annie, and now he was putting her child in harm's way. He was not fit for love—he was not meant to touch, or even be around people. Even if she _had_ called him papa. Even if her need for comfort had her reaching out to him.

"Oh Meg," he groaned, collapsing into a chair as the memory washed over him of her sweet head pressing into his chest, trusting him to keep her safe. "Oh my poor, dear, sweet little Meg," he closed his eyes and let his head sink toward his chest. "I will go darling, and leave you alone. You will be safe."

But of course, he could not guarantee that she _would_ be safe, for Yusef still lived. If ever there had been a soul in need of killing, it was that villainous, gypsy scoundrel. And yet here too Erik had failed her. He had given the bastard too much quarter, and somehow, the dog had been able to escape. Erik knew, once bested, Yusef would be twice as wicked if he were ever to return.

Erik let out an incomprehensible roar, jumping to his feet as he sent the chair he had been sitting in careening across the room. He had to stay to keep little Meg safe, but if he did not go, she would never be safe from _him_. There was no way to win this situation, and he wished with all that was left of his miserable heart that he had never returned in the first place. Certainly, he was not welcome in Annie's life…

"Erik," he heard the voice as if from far away, slowly cutting through the fog of misery that his mind had become.

"Annie…," he breathed, certain that he was murmuring only to himself.

"Erik," the voice came again, a bit closer now.

Slowly, Erik opened his eyes and beheld a vision—of the one who was _always_ there—filling his dreams. Her dark eyes seemed to look right into his soul, and her tentative smile seemed to widen with the faintest glimmer of hope. But it didn't matter now how soft her hair would feel as it slipped through his fingers or how warm her lips would be against his. She would never fill his arms—never again. She was the one who wanted it that way.

"Madame Giry," Erik said, forcing his eyes to look away, his voice sobering as he straightened his stance. "Why are you not with your daughter?"

"Meg is resting comfortably now," Annie said, thrown a bit off guard by his sudden change in demeanor. "Giselle is with her. And I…," she stumbled a bit over her words, suddenly at a loss for what to say. "I…,"

"Yes, Madame?" Erik asked, crooking an eyebrow impatiently as he waited for her to finish her thought.

"I wanted to say thank you," Annie forced out the words, questioning her sanity for having come in the first place, "for saving my daughter."

"I would have done the same for any young girl," Erik responded, brushing off Annie's gratitude as he walked past her to look out at the lake. "It was more about stopping Yusef than it was about saving Meg," he told her, though they both knew his words weren't true.

"I see," Annie responded, taking a deep breath before turning to look in his direction. "Well, at least it is finally over. Were you able to dispose of the body?"

"There was no body," Erik told her grimly, his shoulders tightening as he continued to stare at the dark waters that rushed through his underground domain. "Apparently he was not quite as close to death as I had thought. When I returned, he was gone. But fear not, Madame Giry. _Should_ he return, I shall finish the job with far greater efficiency."

"I have no doubt," Annie responded confidently, "that you shall keep us safe."

"Of course, I shall," Erik answered. "For I am the opera ghost. It is my duty to rid the Garnier of any filth or undesirables that should dare to mar its surface."

 _The Garnier,_ Annie thought, as her heart sunk in her chest. Of course, he would claim the opera house as his only concern.

"Erik," she began, the dryness in her throat making it very difficult for her to speak. "I have another reason for being here."

"And that would be…?" he asked, still refusing to look in her direction.

"I…" she said in a quiet voice, fiddling with the chain around her neck, "...I have something that I believe is yours."

 _My heart?_ Erik inwardly screamed. _My soul? Do you realize that you are still in possession of those? That no matter how you've tried to discard them, they still belong to you?_

"I…I found this…" Annie stammered, "on the edge of the lake. After…" she paused a moment to catch her breath. "After you'd gone."

Erik felt his heart pounding in his chest, but still, he did not look at her. He could not. It was as if his feet were bolted to the ground to prevent him from dropping to his knees and begging her to love him again.

"Erik," she implored him in a desperate whisper, "will you _please_ look?"

Closing his eyes, Erik took a deep breath to steel himself for what he might see. Slowly, gracefully, he turned to face her, and the glint of fiery topaz in the candlelight was near enough to blind him.

There, in the very center of her palm, was the ring he'd brought from Persia for the express purpose of making Annie his wife. The one he'd been planning to slip onto her finger the night disaster struck. He thought he'd lost it to the lake, but it still glittered as brightly as it always had, dazzling in its appearance, rich in the sentiment he'd hoped it would signify.

Wrapped around its delicate gold band was a long chain, as if it had been worn around someone's neck, perhaps tucked beneath clothing, to keep it from being seen. Suddenly, visions flashed in his mind of the times since his return that he'd seen Annie fiddling with the chain that hung around her neck and dipped below the bodice of her black mourning dress. Could it have been this ring that dangled from the end of it, held tightly between her bosom cradled close to her heart? The thought was enough to make his head throb, and as he always did when he was hurt, he lashed out to stop the pain.

"That old thing?" He chuckled disdainfully, the only response he could make to keep himself from crumbling under the agony triggered by the sight.

"I…," Annie forced herself once again to speak, "I kept it for you…thinking it might hold some significance…,"

"I had a use in mind for it once…." Erik responded coldly, fighting to keep his emotions in check, "but it's useless now—hardly worth the chain from which it is hanging. You should have left it where you found it—or better yet," he added, turning away from her again to gaze out at the deep, swirling waters, "let it be swallowed by the lake, for all the purpose it will serve."

Erik's words crushed Annie's heart as surely as if he had taken the still beating muscle from her chest and squeezed with every ounce of force he possessed. He truly did not love her anymore.

"Pardon me, Erik," Annie's words came as a strangled whisper, "for wasting your time with an item I had presumed might be important. I will simply leave it here," she said, placing the ring, with the chain still attached, on a nearby table, "for you to do with what you wish." And touching her hand a final time to the item that had symbolized such dreams for so long, Annie turned and made her way through Erik's home, back out into the Parisian night.

* * *

 _She is gone_. Erik thought as he heard Annie make her way out of his home. _Again, she is gone._ But of course, she is, he thought, as he finally turned and walked over to the small table on which she had placed her discovery. It's not as if she truly wanted to be here in the first place. She came to express gratitude for a favor, and out of some strange sense of obligation to return a possession he had lost. She had not truly come for him.

Reaching out, he lifted the chain from the table, holding it up high so that the ring dangled in front of his eyes. "So many hopes," he murmured to the sparkling black diamonds, the exquisite center topaz. "So many dreams..." he paused as a vision of Annie walking toward him all in white danced across his eyes. She was smiling, radiant, finally _his_ … Except that she wasn't… "All dashed…" he added, letting the ring fall from his fingers back onto the table as he stalked into the parlor.

This was lunacy…madness! He had far more important things to do than to pine over a woman who'd made it clear many years ago that she didn't love him anymore. He would keep an eye out for Yusef, and should the scoundrel return, Erik would dispatch him once and for all. Until that moment, he had an opera to write. He had promised Christine an original score that would make her voice soar. It was about time he got started.

Retrieving his violin and lifting it to his chin, Erik pulled the bow across the tautly tuned strings. He set his mind on Christine and on her glorious voice as he let his deft fingers dance across his instrument. He would create for her a masterpiece that would guarantee her place in history as the most exquisite soprano to ever grace the Garnier stage. Paris would hear her and know that they had been visited by an angel.

As the notes began to pour forth from his violin, Erik found himself getting lost in the song, allowing music's sweet succor to cleanse his mind and heart from the turmoil of the night that had just passed. Yusef's cruel attack, the blood staining Meg's forehead, Annie's confusing presence—soon all faded with each pass of the bow. Eventually, he found himself playing a long familiar melody, and his thoughts moved from the glories of the Parisian stage to the crunch of autumn leaves, peals of childhood laughter, and a sweet, beautiful girl giving him his very first kiss.

 _How did things change, Annie?_ He wondered, as he continued to play the bittersweet refrain that would always be her song. _How did I lose you?_

Of course, he knew the answers to his question. He had heard the harsh words she spoke to him a decade ago. He had gone over them in his mind thousands—no millions—of times. But truly, had there not ever been a moment when she remembered their bond with fondness? Did she never miss the nights they would stay up into the late hours, talking and dreaming about their hopes for the future? Did she never smile thinking about their games of hide and seek in the cave? Of the way their laughter echoed off the walls, creating a sweet symphony of pure joy? Did she truly never long for the feel of his arms circling around her, or the way their liquid limbs melted together like warm honey as they recovered from making love? He knew he was not a handsome man, but still…she had once desired him with the same fervor and passion with which he desired her. Had she truly been able to just turn those feelings off? How had she managed to so easily forget about him?

 _You fool!_ The voice rang in his head. _She wore your ring on a chain around her neck for all these years. How on earth can you think she's forgotten?_

Erik's bow stopped suddenly upon the strings. She had been wearing his ring!

True, it had not been around her finger as he had always dreamed—Giles Giry's ring still held that honor—but he was certain the ring had been dangling from the end of her ever present chain, where it would rest close to her heart.

Erik felt excitement bubbling in his chest as the realization hit him. For her to even have the ring, it must mean that she _had_ returned to his underground home after their parting. That is the only way she would have found it—but of course, she could not have been there looking for it, since she didn't know it existed. She had come back looking for _him_! Perhaps she'd had a change of heart. Maybe she had wanted to reconcile, but she couldn't find him—only the ring.

Had she guessed his intentions? Had she known that that ring was to have meant forever?

If she had, why had she not mentioned it sooner? Why had she not run to him upon his return, and welcomed him back as one would a longed-for lover?

 _Why would she, when your only concern seemed to be the Garnier? You busied yourself with Carlotta and Christine, and every time she tried to approach you, you kept her at a distance. You wouldn't even call her by her name! You reduced her to a messenger. Every overture she ever made toward you was met with defensiveness. And when she did finally bring you the ring, you saw hope in her eyes until you crushed her by calling it worthless._

Erik slumped into his leather reading chair as realization washed over him. It was true. It was all true. _He_ had been the greatest obstacle standing in his own way. He was the main reason there was no hope for the thing he wanted most in life. After all, how could they possibly come back together if he wouldn't even _talk_ to her?

Erik bolted from his chair. He needed to put an end to this right now!

It was morning, and nearing rehearsal time, so he knew he had to hurry, or Annie would be tied up in practice all day. He leapt to the boat, quickly unfastening it from its moorings, and used the pole to set off across the lake. Upon reaching the opposite shore, he dashed toward the staircase, his long legs tackling the steps two at a time. His plan was to intercept her in the tiny apartment she shared with her daughter, and then…

And then…

What?

Erik paused when he realized he did not know what to say once he got to her. How can one possibly just come out and say, "I love you," after ten long years—especially since he had been so cold to her since his return. Perhaps the conversation should actually start, "I am a fool, _but_ I love you?" Perhaps simply, "I am a fool."

Erik was still tossing about the different possibilities for greeting his beloved when another familiar voice pierced his consciousness.

"Raoul, I…I cannot see you anymore," the voice came, dainty but clear.

"But Christine, I…" the vicomté answered, obviously distressed, "I do not understand."

 _Christine…_

Erik stopped and looked around to find the hidden panel that he knew would slip aside and reveal to him the world on the other side of the walls. Locating it quickly, he shoved it aside to find Christine and Raoul gathered in her dressing room. Christine was pacing the floor back and forth, while Raoul simply stood in the middle of the room, watching her, dumbfounded.

"I thought you had sincerely enjoyed our time together…" he pressed her for answers, making Christine look positively wretched.

"I did, Raoul," Erik heard the young soprano say, and he could not help the seed of anger that immediately took root within him. "But music is very demanding," She told him plainly. "It requires my full attention…"

"Or your _Angel_ of music does…" he snapped in irritation.

"Raoul please," Christine implored him, her eyes closing in defeat.

"Christine," Raoul beseeched her, "You cannot possibly believe he is truly an angel!"

"What other explanation is there, Raoul?" she asked. "I have not seen him, and yet I hear his voice."

"No one has seen the ghost either, and yet that certainly does not make _him_ an angel!" Raoul countered.

"Raoul, my angel has made me the star of the Paris stage."

"Which you would have become even without his help." Raoul insisted.

"Raoul," Christine shook her head, "I don't know…"

"I do, Christine," Raoul assured her, stopping her pacing by taking her hand in his. "You would have won the stage on your own, Christine," he promised her, his voice growing gentle and warm. "Just as you have won my heart."

"Raoul," Christine answered breathlessly as Raoul lowered his head to touch his lips to hers. Christine tipped her head to meet him, accepting his kiss eagerly.

When they pulled away, Raoul whispered, "Don't take your heart away from me Christine. I will give you all the time you need for your art. We will be discreet, and I won't stand in the way of your dreams, but, Christine…I love you…"

"Oh Raoul!" she shrieked, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him in for another kiss.

 _So_ , Erik thought as he slid the window closed to lock out the affectionate display. _This is how she repays me. So easily swayed by a pretty face!_

"No matter, Christine," Erik snarled. "Once my opera is complete, you will have no choice but to listen to me. Then you will truly be mine!"

Stalking back in the direction from which he had come, Erik hurried to the boat to sail back to his underground lair. The Phantom had work to do.

 **AN: Really, Erik, couldn't the Phantom just take a little holiday. You were right the first time-Go talk to Annie and GROVEL for her forgiveness!**


	118. Chapter 118

Ch 118

The Garnier had been quiet. The nightly performances still ran, to a sold-out auditorium every night. It had been years since the opera house had accomplished that feat, but with Christine in the lead role, Paris was beginning to rediscover its love affair with music. Carlotta had taken some time off—to visit family in Italy was the _official_ reason, but really, it was to mend her wounded pride. The patrons, Philippe and Raoul visited the Garnier regularly, supposedly to oversee the management of their investment. With Carlotta gone, however, Philippe had rediscovered his interest in the ballet, while Raoul only had eyes for Christine. Strictly speaking, everything was simply continuing as expected.

Except that no one had heard from the ghost.

It had been weeks since one of his cryptic notes had been waiting in Box 5, demanding this person's firing, or that person's removal from the orchestra. There were no strange noises, or unexplained events. Yes, Josef Buquet had gone missing, and some of the ballet rats swore that it was the work of the Phantom—that the ghost had killed him and hid his body somewhere deep below Paris. But considering the former stagehand's proclivity for drink, it was just as believable that he had wandered off one day in a drunken stupor, and either met his fate, or found a better opportunity. That was the managers' position, at least, and as far as they were concerned, Monsieur Buquet would not be welcome, should he ever find his way back to the Garnier.

Meg, perhaps, felt his absence most acutely. She could not understand why the person who had saved her—who had cradled her so gently in his arms while she sobbed—was suddenly gone from her life. Once her mother had admitted the truth about her relationship with Erik, Meg had been so certain that all they needed to do was talk. She had been convinced that soon she would have a real family for the first time that she could remember, with a joyful mother and a "papa" who loved her. But things had not gone the way she had hoped. Her mother had returned from seeing Erik even more heartbroken than usual—her ever present golden chain missing from her neck. She would not talk about what had transpired, but it was clear that they had not rekindled their old connection.

Meg had tried to slip away—to sneak off to the underground world where she knew the ghost resided—but he was never there. She would wait by the lake and call to him—the echo of her voice always having been enough to alert him to her presence in the past—but he would never come to her. It had been enough to make her break down in tears one day while she and Alain had been playing in the tunnels.

"Aww, Meg," he had murmured when he'd found her curled up and crying instead of hiding. "I knew it wasn't a good idea to come here," he said, admonishing himself as he knelt down before her to try to comfort her. "That evil man will never harm you again!" he swore, an angry set to his jaw, as he placed a hand on her shoulder. "I will see to it."

"No, Alain," Meg sniffed, trying to pull herself together in front of her friend. "It's not that," she swore, though she did still have nightmares of Buquet's slovenly hands on her body, holding her fast—not letting go.

"Then what is it, Meg?" Alain asked tenderly, concern clear in his cornflower gaze.

"It's just," Meg stammered, breathing deeply to try to hold her emotions in check. "I miss my papa."

Of course, Alain thought she was speaking of Giles Giry—the man who had died when Meg was just a baby. His own memories of Monsieur Giry were fuzzy, but filled with goodness, as the generous man had done many kind things for him as well. He pulled his friend into an uncharacteristic hug, one arm wrapped around her back, the other hand resting gingerly in her hair. "I'm here for you, Meg," he promised her softly, knowing that he could never replace a father's love in her life, but wanting her to know he would do whatever was in his power to make her happy. "I will always be right here."

"I know, Alain," Meg whispered, hugging her friend back tightly, surprisingly comforted by the sweetness of his embrace. "I know."

"Do you think he has gone, Mama?" Meg asked that evening, as they quietly took their dinner together, alone in their little apartment.

"I do not know, Meg," Annie responded, looking down at her plate, hardly having an appetite to eat. She had asked herself that question many times, feeling as if she would surely know if Erik had disappeared again. And it certainly seemed as if he had, for even Christine lamented the loss of her angel.

In her naivety Christine had not, of course, put together that her angel and the ghost were one in the same. But she had stopped hearing his voice around the same time that the ghost had gone silent.

"You did well, child," Annie had congratulated the young prima donna one night in her dressing room, after a show. "Your angel must be proud," she added, hoping to hear that Christine anticipated some communication from him indicating his approval of her performance.

"I would not know," Christine admitted, a certain sadness entering her gaze. "I no longer hear his voice."

"He no longer trains you?" Annie asked, surprised that Erik would abandon the young soprano that he considered the greatest hope for the Garnier's future. "No longer offers opinions on your voice?"

"He has not come to me in quite some time," Christine shook her head. "Ever since Raoul and I…" her voice trailed off in sadness, her eyes closing as if to hold back tears.

"Why would you think your relationship with the vicomte' would have anything to do with your angel?" Annie asked, her stomach suddenly doing flip flops as her fingers reached for the chain that was no longer hanging from her neck.

"He warned me," Christine told her, "that music was a fickle lover. That it would not tolerate my divided attentions. He told me to end things with Raoul—to tell him that I could no longer see him. But I couldn't do that, Madame," Christine revealed, her eyes wide, begging for Annie's understanding. "Because I _love_ Raoul."

"I know, Christine," Annie reassured the young girl, gently patting her hand. "And I am certain your angel realizes that your relationship with the vicomte' has not adversely affected your singing in any way."

"Then why does he no longer come?" Christine asked.

"Perhaps, with you as prima donna now," Annie began, though in truth, she had no idea why Erik had stopped visiting his favorite pupil, "he has achieved all that he wished to achieve, and feels his tutelage is no longer necessary."

"But that is certainly foolish of him," Christine countered, looking away. "For how could I ever stop needing my angel?"

How could she stop needing him indeed? Annie had asked herself the same question so many times over the past ten years—for if there was a way to stop needing Erik, she truly wished she could find it. And yet, still, she did not know it, for her need for him was just as great as it always had been. She ached for him every night in the velvety shadows of darkness—she saw his eyes in her dreams every morning, right before waking to another glaringly bright day without him. She had not been able to force herself to stop needing Erik after ten years of desperately trying to let him go—and she needed him in a way that she was sure Christine could not even begin to comprehend.

Yet, something inside Annie refused to believe that Erik was truly gone. There was a part of her that could still feel him—that still knew he was close. It was as if, at times, she could detect him watching her and Meg, his protective presence a safeguard against danger. Maybe it was ridiculous for her to believe she still had that connection with her former love. After all, he seemed to have completely severed any connection he had once felt to her. And yet, though she could not explain it, her heart still felt his presence. She just knew that the ghost was not done with them.

* * *

Monsieur Moncharmin was in his glory as he checked his reflection a final time in one of the many glittering mirrors that graced the entry hall. They had come to the end of another opera season—a wildly successful one, thanks to the fortunate discovery of the magnificent Swedish soprano Christine Dáae—and all that lay before them was the annual Midsummer's Masquerade. Preparations for the gala night had gone swimmingly well, especially after that slob Josef Buquet disappeared and their resident ghost had seemed to lose interest in the day to day runnings of an opera house. Things were looking up at the Garnier, if Moncharmin did say so himself, and with the security of patronage from the nobility—all but cemented by the vicomte's romantic relationship with their esteemed Prima Donna—it was safe to say that they were looking at a very bright future indeed.

"Monsieur Moncharmin?" he heard from behind him as his business partner approached. Monsieur Richard looked rather much like Robin Hood or Peter Pan, but Moncharmin knew he was supposed to be the woodland fairy Puck who caused such great mischief in the play from which their masquerade took its name.

"Monsieur Richard," Moncharmin smiled at his colleague. "How wonderful to see you! This is quite an event we've got going!"

"So, it _is_ you!" Richard declared, patting Moncharmin on the back. "I wasn't sure, at first, but then I asked myself, who else would come to the party dressed as a horse's ass?"

Richard guffawed heartily at his own joke, but beneath the elaborate mask that concealed Moncharmin's facial features, the flightly manager simply rolled his eyes. "That's horse's head, Monsieur Richard," he informed his business partner. "I am taking on the role of Nick Bottom—the genius leader of the actors whose head is transformed by Puck into that of a horse."

"I always thought Nick Bottom was a fool!" a female voice remarked from behind and both men turned to see Carlotta, completely decked out as Titania, Queen of the Fairies, as she made her way to the ball.

"Ahhh, la Carlotta," Moncharmin remarked, taking his hands in hers and leaning forward to bestow each of her cheeks with a kiss, "so good to have you back."

"I wish I could say that it was good to be back," she returned coldly, as she turned one, then the other of her cheeks to receive his gestures of affection, "but that would depend on whether or not you are still letting your opera be run by a ghost."

"We have not heard a word from the ghost in weeks, Signora," Richard informed her with relief.

"Well then," she smiled and raised her eyebrow, "I suppose I can reclaim my rightful place as prima donna at the start of the next season."

"Let's not be too hasty, Signora…," Moncharmin responded, his horse's head hiding the nervous smile that had blossomed on his lips. While he had been loath to see Carlotta replaced at first, even he could not deny the increase in ticket sales the Garnier had enjoyed. He would not want to see that change.

"As I said," Carlotta snapped, a look of disgust spreading over her face when she looked at the bumbling manager. "A fool." And with that, she thrust her nose into the air and entered the party, without another thought to the infuriating men who used to be her bosses.

"Great job handling that one," Richard smirked, patting Mocharmin on the back.

"Yes, well," Moncharmin responded, grateful that his mask hid the embarrassment he could feel creeping up on his cheeks. "Shall we go inside?"

Inside, the opera house was a swirl of colors, with fanciful costumes and peals of joyful laughter filling the space. Fairies and goblins reveled alongside wood sprites and royalty, all happily celebrating the Palais Garner's season of success.

Annie had been to many of these parties during her years with the opera house. They were always extravagant nights, overflowing with merriment and good cheer, but her heart had never been in them. Even her very first ball, which she had attended on the arm of her future husband, had been spent distracted the whole time with thoughts of her beloved Erik. And now, as the music played and the champagne flowed, her mind was filled with visions of her dark angel once again. What she wouldn't give to feel his arms around her waist as they glided across the dance floor. How she wished she could gaze into his golden eyes as he whispered words of love, enticing her to lift her head for a kiss.

 _Madness_ , she scolded herself as she reached for another glass of champagne. It had never happened—it _would_ never happen. And the fact that she could still let herself fantasize about such things after he had made it clear that he had no interest in her was proof only of the pathetic nature of her existence.

Annie's eyes scanned the room until she caught sight of Meg, dressed in a gauzy white princess gown, dancing with Alain. The two seemed to be having a wonderful time, talking and laughing as they whiled the night away. How she prayed that her daughter would always have the good fortune of being surrounded by the happiness life could bring. How she wished for her a life filled with love and joy and light. A life so different from the sorrow-filled one that she had led.

Knowing her daughter was in good hands, Annie removed herself from the revelry, which had become stifling, and stepped out into the gardens to get some air. The gentle summer breeze hitting her face, she took in a deep breath, closed her eyes, and tried…to forget.

* * *

It was time. He had locked himself away in his subterranean home, doing the work that had to be done, never allowing himself to engage in the distractions that would so readily consume him if he but allowed it. No more phantom—no more angel. Obviously, his wishes and his influence meant nothing to Christine. Though he had made his feelings on the matter very clear, she continued to cavort with the vicomte', even accepting the young pup's declaration of love when her mind should rightfully have been centered on her music. And so, the time for games being over, he had finally written her a piece of music that would demand her whole heart—her whole soul. For he had left his own soul within, and it was now her duty and her privilege to use her voice to bring it into glorious life. This was the night he had chosen to present it to her—and to the entire company of the opera. They had fashioned their festivities after a Midsummer Night's Dream, but it would be more like a nightmare when the mighty Oberon himself, clad all in black, made an appearance to declare, authoritatively, what their next production would be! He would emerge on the grand staircase, drawing all eyes to himself, his long strides carrying him right before Christine. There he would toss his opera at her feet, reminding her once and for all that she belonged to him—not the insolent young vicomte' with whom she had been recently wasting her time.

Except that Christine had still not arrived at the party, and as Erik watched from the shadows, he could not keep his own eyes from being drawn to the ballet mistress who kept to herself in the corner of the room. She was still dressed in her customary black, but tonight silver threading ran through a filmy skirt, and jewels, interwoven among the twists of her braid, glittered brightly like stars. She was exquisite—even in her quiet solitude—and as Erik watched her red painted lips close upon a champagne flute, he found that she could still take his breath away.

His heart began to pound as he watched her set her glass down and make her way onto the balcony—her dark beauty escaping into the night. He had not even realized that he'd followed her, skirting the edge of the room, until he stood there gazing upon her as she held her face to the summer breeze, her slender fingers reaching up to feel for a chain that was no longer dangling from her throat. The chain that had held his ring.

Erik's heart squeezed as he recalled their last words to one another—when she had asked him about the bauble's significance, and he had told her it was worthless. She had left it with him then, when she departed, and he had come so close to going after her, and telling her it had all been a lie, begging her to take him back. Christine's betrayal had held him back, forcing him to change his tactics and withdraw beneath the opera house. But looking at her now, so lovely, so alone, he was truly not sure he'd made the right choice.

Of their own volition, Erik's feet moved toward her, never making any sound, hardly daring to breathe. But Annie knew—of course she knew—and she turned slowly to meet his gaze. Her dark eyes searched his golden ones, as they had so many times before, and just like that, the rest of the world simply fell away.

Erik did not think before he held his black gloved hand out to her, but neither did Annie hesitate to take what was offered. Their fingers intertwining, Annie's other hand rested on Erik's shoulder, as his found its way to her waist. They stared at each other a moment more, their eyes probing, penetrating deep into each other's souls, before a new song spilled out into the garden and they began to dance.

No words were spoken as their bodies moved together in the silver moonlight. No utterances were needed, as the rhythm came naturally, the cadence one they had explored many times before. Annie's heart felt about to burst when Erik's hand pulled her more firmly to him, the hard outline of his form making her melt with desire. Erik thought he had died and entered paradise when Annie's head rested gently against his shoulder, the warmth he had been denied for so many years finally filling his soul once more. They were music—they were dance—entwined ever so perfectly together in their shared embrace.

When the orchestra quieted, and the song had ended, Annie lifted her head to gaze once again into Erik's eyes. Still they swayed, gently back and forth, unable to quell the melody that had united their souls once again. Finally, there was nothing else—no one else in the entire world, now that Erik's angel was back in his arms. For the life of him, he could not recall ever having had any other reason to be there tonight. For what else could possibly matter than to finally hold her—at long last, claiming his beloved as his own? Erik's head began to lower, his lips on fire as on a hoarse whisper he cried, "Annie…"

And her eyelids fluttering closed, Annie's mouth parted to murmur "my angel," as she waited for his kiss.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Monsieur Moncharmin's voice boomed out from inside, cutting through the trance that had billowed up between them. "I am pleased to present to you the Vicomte' de Chagny and his new fiancé, our very own Christine Dáae!"

Annie's eyes flew open and she watched as Erik's jaw tightened and the soft glow in his golden eyes sharpened to a glare of anger all while the opera house erupted in cheers. Releasing her immediately from his embrace, Erik stalked inside, his black cape whipping against her legs in the intensity of his fury. Annie reached out an arm to grab him and prevent him from doing whatever was coming next, but she was too late. Rushing after him, she watched from the doorway as Erik clapped loudly.

"Bravo, Monsieur Vicomte', on your latest acquisition!" he bellowed, in a voice dipped in poison.

"Angel?" Christine asked, her eyes wide in disbelief.

"Oh no," Annie whispered, her dreams once again shattering before her very eyes.

"You remember me, Christine?" Erik asked, the exposed side of his upper lip curling into a sneer. "I am surprised."

" _You_ are her angel?" Raoul asked, putting a protective arm around Christine, putting himself just slightly before her, as if to defend against this horned creature all in black who had appeared out of nowhere.

"Angel…" Erik responded, gazing at the vicomte' with a wicked grin, "Phantom…I go by many names."

"Y…y…you…," Moncharmin stuttered as he raised a finger to point in Erik's direction, "…are…the ghost? That has been plaguing us for…y..years?"

"Settle down, Monsieur," Erik glared down at him. "Has no one told you it is impolite to point?"

"A...angel," Christine began again, pushing forward, despite Raoul's attempts to keep between them. "Where have you been?"

"Did I not tell you I was writing you an opera?" Erik shot back at her, reaching into his cloak and tossing a bound manuscript at her feet. "That takes some time, Christine. Time that you spent getting engaged, apparently."

Christine looked down at the floor, unable to meet her angel's gaze now that he was showing himself to her for the first time. "Angel, forgive me…," she whispered.

"Forgive you?" Erik asked. "For what? For betraying your art? For forsaking the man who molded your voice—who put you where you now are?"

"Angel, Phantom, now Man?" Raoul retorted angrily. "Who or _what_ are you really?" he demanded, once again putting himself between Erik and his distraught fiancé.

" _I_ am the one to whom your fiancé once promised she belonged," Erik spat, burning a hole directly into Raoul's soul with his fiery gaze. "Be careful of her vows, Monsieur," he continued. "It is rather obvious she lies!"

Raoul lunged toward Erik, but Monsieur Richard placed his hands on the young vicomte's arms to hold him back.

"Behold, your new production lies at your diva's feet!" Erik proclaimed to all in attendance. "An opera written just for her—to make her voice soar to the heavens." Then turning again to lock his gaze with Christine's, he extended his hand as he added, "If you would simply return to your music."

"My music," Christine nodded absently, her body leaning toward him even as Raoul held her back, "my angel."

"My music," Erik nodded in echo, continuing to stare into her soul, "your voice." And with a wave of his hand, a flash of light appeared, causing smoke to billow up all around them. When the smoke had cleared, the phantom was gone.

 **AN: Erik IS fond of making entrances...AND, apparently, exits! Oh, Erik you fool-you had all you wanted in your arms, and STILL your misplaced ambitions got in your way! Fool fool fool!**


	119. Chapter 119

CH 119

"Finally!" Raoul huffed, his long black overcoat billowing out behind him as he followed Christine into her dressing room and angrily slammed the door. "I thought that rehearsal would never end!"

"Well, Raoul," came Christine's calm, clear response, as she turned to face him, "there is much to do to prepare for the new production. It's a very challenging one, and…"

"Then why don't the managers resume plans for the production that _had_ been in the works?" Raoul growled, his voice dark in anger. "Why must everyone kowtow to this…this…maniac? Working extra-long hours—even cancelling the scheduled time off between seasons to accommodate the increased _challenges_? Just because _the ghost_ dictates that this should be the new production doesn't mean it has to be."

"Raoul," Christine said quietly, trying to make her irate fiancé see reason, "it _is_ very good."

"I'm sure there are many other operas that are very good," Raoul argued, pacing back and forth in front of her. "Wagner… Verdi… Mozart! They all wrote very good operas."

"Yes, they did," Christine nodded.

"Well then why not one of them?" Raoul demanded, rounding on her. "Why give in to this lunatic's commands?"

"Raoul," Christine said, placing her hands on his forearms to stop his pacing, and gazing up at him sweetly, "this one's better."

"Better!" Raoul huffed, pulling out of her hold and stalking away from her. "Years— _decades_ —of operatic excellence all overshadowed by a madman who claims to be both phantom and angel. Ridiculous!"

"Raoul," Christine insisted, her enthusiasm for the piece becoming more and more apparent as she spoke, "it is true. His melodies soar to the very heavens, accompanied by harmonies so rich and lush as to make one believe they were standing in the Garden of Eden. It is a masterpiece, Raoul! It could only have been penned by a musical genius!"

"It was penned by a madman who masquerades as a ghost, Christine! A phantom!" he scoffed in disgust. "A man who lied to you, snuck around, spoke to you through the _walls_ , and told you he was an angel!"

"He _has_ been an angel to me, Raoul," Christine argued. "He has taught me. He has given me a voice…"

"You always had a voice, Christine," Raoul countered.

"Really?" Christine retorted. "Did you ever hear it?" When Raoul just started at her in confusion, Christine continued. "You have known me most of my life, Raoul. We grew up together, playing as children. Did you know I had a voice? Did you have any idea I could sing?"

"Well, no… I," Raoul sputtered, "…I didn't."

"Exactly!" Christine made her point. "I have loved to sing all my life, Raoul, but until now, nobody—except for my dear father—knew it. It's not your fault," she added gently, as she saw the shame in his eyes. "I never shared it with anyone before my angel came into my life. I was too bashful. Too afraid. I didn't even mean to share it with him—but somehow, he was there. And he heard, Raoul. And now look at me," she pleaded, taking his hands in hers, her eyes shining in triumph. "I am prima donna of the Paris Opera House, rehearsing a score that was written with my very own voice in mind! Can you believe it, Raoul? An entire opera—written for _me_. It is a dream come true. And _he_ made it happen."

"Christine," Raoul vowed, gazing deeply into her blue eyes with his own, "I _am_ looking at you. I see a beautiful, smart, strong woman who has always had more talent inside her than she has ever been given credit for. By anyone. Including me." Hanging his head in remorse, he added, "I am so sorry I never knew how gifted you were. Perhaps, if I had been a better friend, you would have felt more inclined to share your music with me. But Christine," he told her, his blue eyes piercing her own with the intensity of his gaze, " _you_ are the one singing on that stage. Your voice is your _own_. _He_ did not give it to you."

"He gave me a chance…," Christine pressed, refusing to be swayed, "to be heard…"

"By bullying the managers…making insane demands….traumatizing Carlotta…" Raoul listed the phantom's many faults.

"He _helped_ me," Christine maintained. "I am sorry for the managers, but Carlotta is a truly mean-spirited woman. And he _did_ write her a part in his opera!"

"A silent one!" Raoul exclaimed, not able to keep himself from giggling a little at the irony, despite his irritation. "You cannot blame her for being displeased."

"True…," Christine agreed, the trace of a smirk playing on her lips, as she remembered the look of fury on the former diva's face when she'd seen her role. "However, she seems to be the _only_ one upset by that plot twist."

"Christine," Raoul added, his voice softer now, as his eyes searched for understanding, "he tried to prevent you from seeing me—he wants to keep us…apart."

Christine gazed at her lover's face and saw the fear and sadness etched there. "Raoul," she spoke tenderly, moving closer to him, and lifting a hand to trace the outline of his cheek. "That will _not_ happen. Yes, he wants me to focus on my music without distraction, but I _am_ concentrating on my music," she insisted, tipping her head up and allowing her eyelids to flutter closed "and all the while, loving you."

Raoul was powerless to resist his fiancé's advances, and lowered his head to join his lips to hers. After a moment, his arms circled around her waist, pressing her tightly to him, as their kiss deepened.

"You see, Raoul," Christine whispered, when they finally separated in order to catch their breath, "I am yours. You are mine. Nothing will part us. And my angel will surely see that your kisses only give me all the more reason to sing."

Brushing an unruly curl away from her cheek, Raoul smiled at the adorable way her eyes sparkled. Smiling, he swooped down to steal another kiss before murmuring, "Christine, I hope you are right. I just don't want anything to happen to you. Or to us."

"Raoul," she asked incredulously. "What could happen? He only wants me to sing!"

"I'm sure you're right, my darling," Raoul heaved a great sigh, hugging her even closer and tucking her head beneath his chin. "Everything will be fine" he added, wondering if he repeated it often enough would he convince himself that it was true?

* * *

Lurking. That is all he did these days. He lurked and watched…and waited—in the shadows. His job was no longer available to him—that much had been clear during the extended rehearsal, when he'd witnessed a couple of strapping young lads working the heavy weights and pulleys that operated the fly system. It was fine with him, really. He had no use for lifting cumbersome scenery and equipment when it was still such an effort for him to even walk—when his lungs still ached every time he took a breath. That _fiend_ had seen to it that he would never again be able to perform the troublesome duties the managers had required of him at the opera house. And so, instead he would content himself to lurk. To watch. To wait. Surrounded, as he was, by the freak's god-awful music.

The _ghost_ , as he called himself these days, always did have a thing for music—the shrill strains of a fiddle had often spilled out of his tent at night. "Rehearsing for the act," was the excuse he would always give when the master questioned him about it. It was only later—much later—that they realized the true reason he was playing music was because he had found himself a girl deranged enough to sneak into his tent at night to ease his solitude. Even now, he snickered at what a dope the boy had been. Surely the dolt could have found better ways to entertain a foolish, naive girl who came to visit him in the dark. Even through the bars of his cage…But no—he chose to play music. And now it appeared the _phantom_ had written an actual opera.

All day he had watched, as the orchestra toiled to get the complex sounding score just right—the ballerinas stumbling as they struggled through Madame Giry's complicated choreography to match the intricacies of the rhythms. Her little brat had been on stage too, floundering along with the rest of them, looking decidedly less confident in herself than the last time he'd seen her. Good, he thought. Looks like he'd taken her down a peg—he would be waiting for her too, to see if he could finish the job he had started.

Most of all though, he would be waiting for _him_ —the little aberration who never should have stepped a foot out of his cage—the feral bastard who had killed the master, and had beaten him to within an inch of his life. _He_ had to receive recompense for the sufferings he had caused. He _had_ to be made to pay. And Yusef would be the one to do it.

He didn't know how—for physically, he could not beat the man. He had been lucky to survive their last meeting—if by lucky one meant spending months in a hospital for the poor and decrepit and living the rest of his life with unnatural pain, stealing food out of garbage cans and sleeping on the streets. No, a physical confrontation between the two would not go well for him. But soon, he knew, the freak's opera would be staged—with his favorite new toy—another naïve young girl—singing the lead. He snickered again, thinking that even after all these years, the fool was still luring wide-eyed, innocent little girls with music. Well, certainly, somehow, some way, there would come an opportunity for revenge during the phantom's little show—some ideal chance to make the dog suffer. And until that time presented itself, Yusef would continue to watch. And wait.

* * *

"Do you think Erik will be watching tonight, mother?" Meg asked as she brushed a final bit of rouge onto her cheeks.

"I imagine that he will," Annie sighed, keeping a watchful eye over her daughter as she finished her preparations for the evening's performance. "It is his opera, after all, and he has been quite vocal about how it is to be performed."

It was true. Since the evening of the Midnight Masquerade, more notes than anyone cared to count had started to turn up in Box 5, the managers' offices, on the stage, etc. The Ghost had quite a bit to say about his opera, and quite a bit of _advice_ on how it should and should not be staged. He had dictated the cast list, arranged the orchestra. He had even given exact set requirements. Everything was to meet his exact specifications, or else… so the notes said. So many instructions. So much business. So many notes…

Not one of them for her. Time and again she had been expected to deliver the missives to Moncharmin or Richard and suffer their reactions to _his_ words. At times, they had demanded that she explain his meanings—a task she was in no way able to perform, since he had not ever explained them to her. She had dealt with the stress the letters had caused, had handled their ramifications, and had followed their directions precisely, and yet at no point had he ever deigned to use her name, or afford her any pleasantries, or even any acknowledgement at all. It was as if that magical moment in the garden—the one she had relived in her mind time after time—had not even happened. Perhaps it truly had been the Fairy King himself—the Mighty Oberon—who had held her in his arms that night, dancing with her tenderly, whispering her name as if on a prayer, as her body melted against his. For surely, in the weeks that had followed, she'd seen no evidence that it had been Erik.

"Do you think he will be pleased, mama?" Meg pressed, scrutinizing her appearance in the mirror to make sure everything was as it should be.

"I am sure Christine will please him greatly," Annie answered, her eyes darkening as she stared blindly into the mirror. For truly, that is what it all came down to. Christine. Always Christine. Only Christine. She was the only person in this entire establishment that Erik seemed to care about. The only one who actually seemed to matter.

"And what about me, mama?" Meg asked, looking disappointed. "Do you think he will be pleased with me."

Annie was momentarily taken aback by Meg's question, but it did not take long for her to realize the reason for her daughter's inquiry. This night, Meg too would be performing for the Phantom—for the man she thought of as papa, whom she very much wished to please. And Annie could not let her own bitterness prevent her from seeing the importance of this night for her daughter.

"Meg," Annie turned to her, smiling. "I am certain he will be pleased with you most of all. After all, look at how he has dressed you!" she added, gesturing to the grand costume—an ankle length gown, all glittering white—that Meg wore. Her hair hung loose in ringlets down her back—as proscribed by the composer himself—and on the top of her head rested a sparkling silver tiara. "You are his little princess. You always have been! You will be perfect."

"I want to be, mama," Meg told her, blushing a bit as she revealed her inmost wishes. "I want him to be proud of me."

"Oh Meg," Annie assured her, reaching out to give her a little squeeze. "I know that he already is. Along," she added, "with myself, Giselle and Alain…"

"Oh, Alain!" Meg huffed, a perturbed look scrunching up her face, "Ever since he saw the costume, he has been calling me nothing but Princess. Princess this—princess that—all with this ridiculous smile on his face. He thinks he's funny, but he's infuriating," Meg scowled, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

Annie smiled, recognizing Alain's teasing for what it truly was—a deep, abiding affection. He was too young yet to know what to do with his feelings, and since Meg was even younger, Annie was grateful for that. But she knew that the day would soon come that Meg would greatly enjoy being Alain's princess—for Annie had no doubt that he would treat her like absolute royalty.

"Never mind that, Meg," Annie told her with a chuckle. "It is almost time for the show!"

A hush fell over the audience as the first chord of the overture rang out into the auditorium. The mystery surrounding the opera's unknown composer, and the rumor that the music had been orchestrated with the voice of the glorious new soprano Christine Dáae in mind had filled every seat in the house. This work was to be as none they had ever heard. When the heavy scarlet curtains opened to reveal a nymph-like blonde princess, all in white, fluttering through a sylvan glade, it was clear that it would be as no opera they had _seen_ before either.

The set was exquisite—the costumes dazzling—but all of that paled in comparison when the Garnier's new prima donna took the stage. Christine gazed upon the crowd gathered before her. So many people watching expectantly, waiting for her first note. There was a time when she would have been intimidated—afraid to stand in front of them, never mind sing for such an enormous group of people. But that was before her angel had come to her and filled her soul with a song she could no longer hide. Gazing up with a smile on her face, knowing that her beloved Raoul was watching, and that somehow, somewhere her angel could hear her, Christine opened her mouth and allowed her voice to soar.

Annie felt tears spring to her eyes when Christine began to sing. Her crystal voice was bright and perfect, and it would surely be the talk of all Paris by the morning. But the song—the song was what had made her cry.

Erik had done it. He had written a masterpiece that suited Christine's voice perfectly. No one would be able to deny it was the work of a genius—a virtuoso—an absolute prodigy. Paris did not know him, but they would know his work—and after tonight, they would never forget it. But Annie did know him, and she could hear the way he supported Christine's clear soprano with a simple melody that he had written long, long ago. A tune inspired by perfect loveliness, or so he had told her at the time. A song that once was hers, but now belonged to Christine. It all belonged to Christine—the song, the accolades, the Paris stage itself. _He_ would be so proud, Annie thought as the tears rolled down her face, recalling the days when he wished all of those things would belong to her. Just as _he_ had belonged to her. A long, long time ago.

As the opera continued, no one noticed another pair of eyes that watched from above—far above the audience, far above the stage. He had to admit that the freak's little toy was doing a wonderful job. She sang far better than Carlotta and kept the audience smiling. It was too bad that she would be forever silenced once he was done with her. It wasn't that he had anything against the little songstress, but it was clear from where he stood, that the opportunity to make Erik suffer for his crimes had finally presented itself. And far be it from him to let that opportunity pass him by.

So, with a leering smile, Yusef removed the old kitchen knife from his pocket. Gazing upon the old, rusty metal, he recalled finding the weapon, covered in blood, the night the master had been slain. He had kept it all these years, carrying it with him for protection, and occasionally, utilizing it for more nefarious purposes. Tonight, however, it would be used to carry out true justice. For what better recompense, Yusef thought, as he brought the blade to the chandelier cord, than for the weapon that killed the master, to be the very same one that would cause Erik's dreams to come crashing down.

 **AN: OH Yusef, you wicked, wicked snake!**


	120. Chapter 120

CH 120

The evening was going splendidly. Not even one seat was left unsold in the auditorium—except, of course, for Box 5, which was still reserved for his exclusive use. The sets, the costumes, the cast—all exactly as he'd ordered, and everyone was doing a remarkable job of bringing his opera to life. His darling Little Giry had been a wonderful way to open the opera—her lithe, willowy dancing a fitting herald to the graceful spectacle that was to come. It was to be a feast for both eyes and ears—and never was that made clearer than when Christine took center stage.

Oh, but she was exquisite! Dressed all in white, with silvery strands running through her gown, she seemed to shimmer ethereally like the celestial creature she was. Her sable curls cascaded over her shoulders, enhanced by the scarlet rose that peeked out from behind her ear. She was the picture of innocence—a heavenly vision. Erik had to shake his head at the idea that he—a creature who hailed straight from hell—could have had a hand in securing this angel her rightful place on the stage. Never had there been such a pure voice, and when Christine opened her lips to sing, no one in the audience would be able to deny that they were in the presence of the seraphim.

Astutely in tune with every aspect of the evening's performance, Erik immediately noticed the bizarre shift in the shadows just as Christine completed her aria. To the audience, it might seem a desired stage effect—a trick of light to set a mood. But to Erik it was clear that something was wrong. Instantly alert, he craned his neck upward to to search for the source of the problem. And the blood froze in his veins. Yusef was back.

Erik felt the panic pounding in his chest. The maniac was on the ceiling's maintenance platform—the same one where Erik had perched years ago to watch Annie in her debut on the stage—and he was sawing a knife against the thick rope that held the chandelier. There were mere moments before the bastard would send the hulking fixture crashing down to the stage below—destroying anything that was in its path.

Or anyone.

Christine!

There was no time to get to Yusef. No time to stop him. But he _had_ to get to her. He _had_ to save her!

Frantically, Erik ran to the back of Box 5 and flipped the switch that opened up his world of darkness, not even bothering with the lantern. He knew the shadows like he knew his own soul, and he headed straight for the passage that would get him quickest to the stage.

He flew through the tunnels faster than one should be able to fly without wings. Extending his arm as he approached his destination, he pressed the lever that would allow him access to the stage. He emerged a black blur from the support column, never stopping until he had clutched Christine by her upper arms, shoving her out of harm's way, and landing with her in a tangled heap at the corner of the stage, just as a mighty crash shook the floor behind them.

That was when the screams began.

 _"Nooooo! Nooooo!"_

 _"Oh my God, is he dead?"_

 _"Wait! Over there! It's the ghost!"_

 _"What's he doing with her? Is he going to kill her too?"_

Erik's heart began to pound in time with his throbbing head, the shouts and chaos around him, an indistinct cacophony of meaningless sound. He had done it. _She_ was safe. Slowly, he lifted his head to assess his surroundings. The chandelier had fallen, punching a crater into the center of the stage. It was lying there, currently, shattered into so many pieces. And there was blood—seeping out from beneath it. And a hand… Oh God…

And there were people…so many people…all around it. And they were staring… and pointing…and screaming…at him.

 _"Oh my God!"_

 _"He is a monster!"_

 _You should have killed him when you had the chance!_ his own mind jeered at him in disgust, joining their chorus of disdain. _Once again, your failure has resulted in blood! So much blood._

"So…" Erik murmured out loud, as he tried to make sense of the situation unfolding before him, "…much blood."

Christine let out a groan as she shifted gingerly in his arms. "Angel?" she whispered hoarsely, turning slowly to look at him, not sure what had happened. "Angel, what…?"

Erik watched as Christine's expression contorted from one of confusion to horror. Her eyes widened, and her mouth formed a perfect, silent O, her breathing coming in short, shallow gasps.

"It's all right," Erik said with a gentle smile, attempting to calm her. "I am here. You are safe."

"No," she shuddered, shaking her head back and forth, her body beginning to tremble as well. "No."

"Yes," Erik insisted, not understanding why she suddenly seemed to be so afraid—of him. Didn't he just protect her? Hadn't he always protected her? "You are. But we have to get away from here," he told her, taking one of her hands and trying to pull them to a standing position. "We have to run. Yusef is back…" he added, expecting her to understand.

"NO!" Christine screamed this time, loud and shrill, as she tried to scramble away from him. "Raoul, save me!"

"Raoul?" Erik asked, his hand closing uncomfortably tightly around Christine's wrist. "No. _I_ saved you. _I._ Your angel…"

"You are no…angel!" Christine sputtered, staring at him in terror, trying to peel open his fingers so she could escape his hold. "Let me go!"

"Christine!" Raoul's deep baritone rang from across the stage. "I'm coming…"

"No!" Erik exclaimed in horror as his head shot up and he saw the blonde nobleman pushing his way through the crowd, trying desperately to get to them. _Not again, not again…_ his mind roared as he envisioned another handsome young gentleman with the curly blond hair taking a young woman's hand... But as he shook his head and the world once again came into focus, he suddenly noticed another horror lying a few feet away from them. On the floor.

His mask.

It must have come off in the scuffle. No wonder the people were screaming. No wonder _she_ was so afraid.

"Help me…" She screamed again, reaching for her young suitor as if he were her savior. "Raoul! Help Me!"

All at once, Erik felt something inside him break. "NO!" he bellowed, an inhuman sound, as he slammed his fist against a hidden lever in the floor. And, suddenly, he and Christine were falling…

* * *

"Erik, no!" Annie screamed as she finally reached the space where her former lover had just been. But it was too late. Erik and Christine were gone—vanished through a trap door that had already closed again. Annie had watched as the entire incident unfolded, as she desperately tried to get to her former lover and his protégé—but everything had happened so fast! Erik's heroic rescue and his attempt to explain, followed by his confusion and anger when the sight of his unmasked face caused Christine to cry to her fiancé for help. She'd seen them disappear into the stage below and she knew, without a doubt, that nothing good could come of this.

"Who the hell is Erik?" Philippe snarled as he and his brother finally arrived, only to watch Christine disappear beneath the stage.

"And what has he done with her?" Raoul demanded, looking around frantically, becoming more and more panicked with every word that fell from his mouth. "What has he done with Christine?"

"I promise, vicomté," Annie assured him, trying to sound confident when in reality she felt like crumbling to the ground and never getting back up. "Christine will be fine with him. This is all just a misunderstanding."

"A misunderstanding?" Moncharmin shrieked, as he came up to them. "I think not. Did you see him? He was a monster! Poor Piangi…" his voice trailed off, as he held his hand to his mouth and looked away.

It was not true, she knew, shaking her head back and forth. Erik himself had told Christine that Yusef was back, but of course she had not understood. But Annie had. It must have been Yusef who cut the ropes to drop the chandelier. The despicable man had returned to exact his revenge—and what a bitter, ill placed revenge it was. Christine had surely been his target—and even though Erik had managed to push her out of the way, he _had_ killed an innocent man

"He will not hurt her," Annie insisted again, her voice sounding feeble and confused even to herself. But she knew it was true. Erik would never put his precious Christine at risk. She was his hope—his dream for the future. Why on earth would he ever want to hurt her?

"He has already murdered once today!" Philippe spat at her. "An innocent man!"

"It was an accident…" Annie tried to argue.

"It was _no_ accident!" Moncharmin shouted back at her. "There was a note lying next to the wreckage of the chandelier. There were only two letters written on it. O.G."

 _O.G._ The revelation rang again and again in Annie's head, causing her heart to race. Not only had Yusef killed by causing the chandelier to fall, he was actively trying to frame Erik by writing that note—making it seem as if the ghost had turned violent. And then, an even more terrifying thought entered her mind. Buquet knew about the tunnels! What would he try to do next?

"I must go," Annie muttered as she turned to leave the stage. Erik was in danger and she had to find him—she had to protect him.

"Christine!" Raoul shouted as he fell to his knees with a sob. He pounded on the floor, desperate to find the secret opening the ghost had used to make his escape, all the while calling out to his fiancé over and over. "Christine!"

Moved with pity by the vicomté's fate, and knowing that her efforts would help him too,

Annie turned to go. Until she felt a tight grip on her arm stop her in her tracks.

"Madame Giry."

Annie turned her head to find the count's fingers wrapped tightly around her upper arm.

" _Who_ is Erik?" he demanded, in a tone that demanded answers.

Lifting her gaze to meet his, she straightened her back and set her jaw. "He is everything, Monsieur," she said with a steely expression, as she yanked her arm away from him and hurried on her way.

* * *

"Let me go! Let me goooo!" Christine screamed until she felt her throat ache from the effort. "Please someone save me!" she sobbed, tears streaming down her face, as her captor dragged her down an endless staircase, darkness all around her.

"Foolish child!" Erik snarled, pulling her ever forward…always forward into endless night. "Why do you think someone will save you? Do you not realize where we are?" he demanded, gesturing grandly to the blackness all around him. "It is hell itself!" he barked, flecks of spittle flying from his lips. "It's a common misconception that hell burns, Christine," he added conversationally, gazing out into the darkness. "Hell is cold. So very cold."

"Please…," Christine wept, terrified of this man—this creature—who was yanking her behind him as if she were nothing more than a rag doll. She had been so wrong to trust him—to yearn for him to show her his face. For once he had, the illusion was gone, and he had shown himself to be not a savior, but a demon. A demon who had taken her from the man she loved. A demon who had killed…

Desperate, Christine tried to keep herself from panicking. Forcing herself to think, she decided that if she could just somehow reach the side of him that had so tenderly taught her how to sing, she might be able to convince him to stop this madness. "Angel," she implored him, using the only name she had for him.

"Angel?" Erik repeated with a little chuckle. "That is a foolish thing to call me, child. You must see by now," he added, gesturing to his face. "I am more akin to the devil himself."

"No," she shook her head, unable to give up on the only plan she had. "No…,"

"Do you jest, Christine?" Erik spat, bringing his face very close to hers as if to punctuate his point. "Can you not see me in the blackness?" When she did no more than whimper and flinch in response, Erik remarked, "Give thanks for the darkness, then, for it is only by its velvety succor that you are prevented from seeing me as I truly am—hideous; deformed; monster…."

"But you were not a monster," Christine forced her mouth to speak the words, trying to pull herself together enough to continue with her plan, hoping with all her heart that her angel was still somewhere inside this hideous, pathetic creature. "You have always been _my_ angel."

"No!" Erik snarled, that word suddenly making his skin crawl. "I am a freak of nature!

A murderer. A great deceiver."

"You were my teacher," Christine implored him to see reason. "My benefactor."

"And how did you repay me?!" Christine heard his voice grow louder and even in the darkness, she could see those strange, golden eyes burning into her like a soul searing flame. "Cavorting with the vicomté. Ignoring my commands. Betraying me!"

"No, Angel," Christine wailed, terrified at what he might do if he remembered her perceived betrayal.

"Do not call me that!" he roared, making Christine shriek and recoil in fear. "No matter," he continued, calmer now, and she could tell that he had turned his head away from her to once more continue their journey. "For now your relationship with the vicomté is over, and you shall belong to your music. You shall belong to me."

Having run out of strength to respond to his withering words, Christine said nothing and only allowed him to pull her toward the sound of rushing water that would carry them farther into the night. _Oh Raoul_ , her heart sobbed, _will you ever find me?_

* * *

Annie's eyes darted in every direction as she desperately tried to navigate the chaos into which the opera house had descended. There were people everywhere. Dancers were huddled together in a throng, tittering loudly about the events that had just occurred. The managers were trying to comfort Carlotta, who had broken down into hysterics, certain that she had been the ghost's intended victim. And the Paris Gendarme were swarming everywhere, looking for any signs of the elusive Phantom. But Annie pushed on. She knew she had to get to Meg. Her daughter could not be anywhere near the opera house when she did what she had to do.

"Mama!" Annie heard the plaintive cry when Meg finally spotted her across the crowded stage. She looked up to see her daughter standing next to Giselle, Alain right beside her with his arm draped across her shoulders. _Thank you, God_ , Annie whispered a silent prayer, as she rushed over them. This made things much easier.

"Meg," Annie exclaimed, crouching down to catch her daughter in her outstretched arms. Folding her tightly in her embrace, Annie muttered, "Thank God you're all right."

"Mama," Meg sputtered, "they say…they say… _the ghost_ did this. They say Erik killed Piangi. And that he kidnapped Christine! Mama," she continued, her voice becoming more panicked, "they want to arrest him. They want to put him in jail!"

"Shhhhh, Meg," Annie whispered, stroking her daughter's hair in an attempt to calm her fears. "I know he had nothing to do with Signor Piangi's death. But I have to get to him. I have to talk to him—to make sure he and Christine are safe."

"Yes, please, mama," Meg nodded, terrified for the man she thought of as _papa_ , "help him."

"I will, Meg," Annie assured her, releasing her daughter from her hold so that she could stand to her full height. Reaching for the chatelaine that hung from her waist, Annie flipped through several keys before she found the one she was looking for. Removing it from the chain she pressed the key into Giselle's hand. "Here," she commanded her friend. "Take the children to our country estate. No one will find you there."

"Antoinette," her friend shook her head in confusion. "What do you mean? What's happening?"

"Just go!" Annie insisted. "Take the coach yourself—no driver. And stay there, Giselle. Do not come back to Paris! I will join you there—as soon as I can."

"Will you bring Erik, Mama?" Meg asked, pleadingly.

"Erik?" Giselle asked, looking at Annie with narrowed eyes.

"I…will, Meg," Annie assured her daughter, though she was not certain if she would be able to do as she promised. She did not let her gaze meet her red headed friend's. She knew there would be so much she had to explain.

"I'm so scared, Mama," Meg cried, her lip quivering, tears threatening to spill over her eyes again.

"Meg, I will be with you," Alain said warmly, coming forward and putting his arm around her shoulder again. "I will keep you safe."

"Oh Alain!" Meg sobbed, burying her head in his chest as he pulled her more fully into his embrace.

"Shhhh," Alain murmured into his best friend's hair, "I've got you Meg. I'm here."

Knowing that her daughter was in the very best of hands, she looked once again to her friend. "I promise, I will explain everything when this is over, Giselle," Annie swore. "But you all need to be far away from Paris. Please, trust me."

"I have always trusted you, Antoinette," Giselle nodded, swallowing her questions to do as her friend said. "I'll take care of them."

"Thank you," Annie said, drawing her into a warm hug. "Thank you!"

* * *

"Christine!" Raoul let loose a hoarse cry, as he continued to pound on the floor frantically, paying no mind to the cuts and bruises that were forming on his hands as he tried to find some way to get to his beloved.

"Dammit, Raoul," Philippe growled at his younger brother, "pull yourself together."

"I have to find her," Raoul insisted, not deterred in his efforts.

"Well, pounding the damned floor," Philippe retorted, grabbing hold of the back of Raoul's shirt and yanking him to his feet, "obviously isn't going to help."

"Philippe," Raoul moaned, his breath coming in heavy puffs, "I knew I should have put a stop to this opera. I shouldn't have let her perform. Now, that madman has Christine—and I have to find a way to save her!"

"Calm down, little brother," Philippe admonished him. "Think! Would he have disappeared with her through the floor if it was an easy way for you to follow? No…there must be a better way—and I'll wager the ballet mistress could tell us exactly how to get to him!"

"Madame Giry?" Raoul asked.

"Yes…" Philippe answered, taking a glance around the stage before leaning in close to his brother to add, "I overheard her referring to him as 'Erik' earlier. It must be his real name, Raoul. She knows more about him than we think."

"Madame Giry…" Raoul considered, as he mulled the idea over in his mind. Madame Giry had been chosen as the ghost's messenger. She claimed to be as much in the dark about his motives as the rest of them were, but perhaps…

Suddenly Raoul had an idea. "You're brilliant, brother!" he told him, before dashing off on his way out of the auditorium.

"Raoul," Philippe called, craning his neck to watch as his brother slipped through the doors into the hall. "Raoul!" he sighed, resuming his search for the stern ballet mistress, once his brother was gone.

Raoul ran as fast as his legs would take him to Box 5. It only made sense that he might be able to find some answers there—since that was where the ghost had supposedly been watching the performance—exactly where Madame Giry had found most of his notes.

Of course, as always, the door was locked, but he would not allow that to be a deterrent. Crouching low, he rammed his shoulder into the wall with all of his might. His body screamed in pain, but it did not matter. He repeated the action again and again, until finally, the door gave way, swinging into Box 5 and revealing a large hole where a brocade covered wall should be.

"I've got you now, you fiend," he muttered to himself, taking notice of the lantern that hung on the wall to his left. Without another thought, he grabbed the lantern and entered the recess, certain that this would lead him to the Phantom—and to Christine.

* * *

Annie's heart was racing. She _had_ to get to Erik and find some way to convince him to let Christine go—and then, hopefully, leave the opera house with her. There was nothing left for either of them here. Everyone had branded him a murderer and a kidnapper—and her reputation would forever be tainted as his accomplice.

No, it was best for both of them to simply get away. They had built a life together once—a happy life, with a home and work that they both loved, long before they had ever come to Paris. They could do it again. It didn't matter that he didn't love her anymore. He undoubtedly loved Meg—that would be enough, she had to believe, to get him to follow her.

 _Is it enough for you?_ her inner voice questioned, but Annie pushed it aside. They would be safe and they would be together. That would _have_ to be enough.

Annie didn't want to use the entrance in Box 5, for she was certain that eventually the managers would think to look for Erik there. The last thing she wanted was to run into them and tip them off about the secret entrance into Erik's world. No, she would use the alleyway entrance.

When Annie slipped through the doors of the opera house, she was relieved to see that there were no gendarme stationed outside of the building. Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, Annie forced her steps to slow—so as not to draw any unwanted attention to herself—and she set herself in the direction of the alley, keeping her head down on the way. She was beginning to think that warning Erik might be easier than she had thought when two rough hands grabbed her upper arms, making her yelp.

"Madame Giry…," she heard from behind her, hot, fetid breath making the skin on her neck crawl. "How lovely to see you again. I admit I didn't expect to see such a classy lady in a dark, seedy, back alley…but, if it turns you on…," he added, chuckling a bit until it turned into a coughing fit.

"Josef Buquet!" Annie seethed through clenched teeth, struggling to free herself from his hold. "You were lucky to escape with your life last time you were here! I can hardly believe you had the nerve to come back!"

"You call it lucky to be wracked with pain every minute of the day?" he demanded incredulously. "To feel as if my lungs were on fire every time I take a breath? Or to have my job stolen from me and give to two young whelps who aren't even old enough to grow hair on their bullocks?" The former stagehand sneered, his expression turning sour, as he released Annie's arms, but positioned himself directly in her path, so that she could not escape the alleyway.

"After what you did to my daughter, you deserve all that and more," she spat at him.

"I didn't do anything to your daughter!" Buquet defended. "That bastard ghost interrupted us a bit too soon."

"And I thank God for that every day," Annie responded. "I heard how he beat you to within an inch of your life. More's the pity that he didn't finish the job!"

"You bitch!" Josef sneered at her, striking her hard across the mouth.

Annie doubled over from the force of the blow, lifting her hand to her lips, and pulling back her fingers only to find the red, sticky liquid that had formed there.

"I'm going to make you pay for that remark," Josef told her, his lip curling in disgust. "And _this_ time, with the ghost _indisposed_ , no one will be able to stop me," he added.

"What do you mean," Annie asked, rising to her full height slowly, her eyes crinkling at the edges. " _the ghost indisposed_?"

"Well, you didn't think I was just going to let him get away with what he did to me, did you?" Josef asked, his chuckles once again turning to coughs.

"What did you do, Josef Buquet?" Annie demanded, though of course she already knew.

"Oh come now, Madame," he bragged with a smile on his face, "You must have had a wonderful view when the great chandelier fell onto the stage during the show tonight. Everyone thinks it was the ghost, since his calling card was found in the wreckage—or if it hasn't been yet, it soon will be. No one will ever think that _I_ was the one that helped it along." He finished his tirade with a wicked laugh.

"You are a murderer!" Annie spat, disdainfully. "You killed Signor Piangi!"

"Well, that is a pity," Buquet remarked, looking a bit regretful. "I was hoping to get the ghost's little whore…Christine. But never mind," his tone changed with a shrug of his shoulders. " _I_ didn't murder that fat tenor. The Phantom did…at least that's what _they_ all think. Everyone will be after him when really, it was me who pulled the strings," Buquet reached into his pocket and pulled out an old, rusty kitchen knife. "Or cut them, as the case may be," he added, once again dissolving into laughter.

Annie heard every word he said, but for the moment, she could not respond. She could only stare at the weapon that he held in his hand—one she instantly recognized as the one she used so long ago. All at once she saw the angry flash of red—felt the sticky warmth as it spread across her fingers—smelled the metal in the air as the wicked gypsy master's life spilled onto the floor.

Erik had not been the first of them to shed blood.

"Where did you get that?" Annie finally forced herself to ask, though she already knew the horrible answer.

"This?" Buquet asked, gesturing toward the knife with his free hand. "I found this many years ago, in my former life, after my employer had been brutally murdered by our very own opera ghost." Lifting the knife so that it was eye level, he added, "I picked it up that night, and I've carried it with me ever since—for protection, or so I thought. Didn't do me a lot of good when that fiend attacked me for simply trying to teach that brat of yours a lesson. It did help me get my revenge today, though," he added, smiling as he continued to gaze at the blade. "Sawed right through that chandelier cords."

He turned, then, to leer at Annie once again, saying "I bet it'll be _real_ good at helping me teach _you_ the lesson I should have taught your daughter. And we both know," he added in a low growl, as he took several more steps toward her, "that the ghost won't be here to save you."

Buquet reached out a hand to pin Annie up against the wall, but Annie was faster. She thrust her knee upward swiftly, making Buquet's head spin as she connected hard with his crotch. As he grunted in pain, doubling over just a bit, Annie grabbed the arm that held the knife and twisted, successfully causing him to drop it on the ground. Shoving outward with her other hand, she knocked him onto his back as she dropped to grab the knife, scurrying over to hold it against his throat.

"I never needed Erik to save me!" she told him, his eyes bulging in surprise as she pressed the blade closer against his neck. "You see, I am not so very little that I cannot save myself! And just so you know after all these years of being wrong," she added, the pressure from her knife making it difficult for him to breathe, "It was not _Erik_ who killed the gypsy master that night. Erik was too badly hurt from that miscreant's brutal beatings to be able to defend himself. So _I_ saved _him_ by slashing the bastard's throat. Recognize me yet, Yusef?"

"Y… y…you…?" Buquet sputtered, barely able to speak with the knife against his skin. "You are t…t…the girl…" When Annie only nodded, he unwisely added, "The l…l…little freak's whore?"

"I was Erik's friend!" Annie spat, her blade now drawing a little bead of blood upon his pasty flesh. "But you would know nothing of that—for you only understand brutality, not beauty. That is why you could never understand Erik. He was far too beautiful for you to comprehend."

"T…t…too beautiful?" Buquet choked out his words. "Have you _seen_ at the fiend?"

"I have seen him," Annie answered thickly, through tears that threatened to form in the corners of her eyes. "All of him! And I see the ugliness in _your_ soul as well." She told him, as she dragged her knife cleanly across his throat.

Annie rose to her full height as she watched the ribbon of red appear on Yusef's throat and heard his dying gurgles. _It was a long time coming_ , she thought, realizing that she felt no remorse. Once again, she dropped the knife and continued on to open the wall that she knew would part to grant her entry into Erik's watery domain. Pressing the lever, she watched the rock slide away. And sparing one more glance at the corpse lying in a heap in the alleyway, she turned her head toward the darkness and whispered, "I am coming my love," as she took her first determined step.

 **AN: Whoa Annie! You certainly gave Yusef exactly what he deserved! But Poor Erik has completely descended into madness! Will Annie be too late to save him?**


	121. Chapter 121

CH 121

He had gone as far as he could go. The shadowy passageway he had found in Box 5 had led him down—down into a cold, damp darkness. Of course, he had noticed the offshoot tunnels that broke from the stairway to the left in some places and to the right in others, but his heart had told him that the monster who had kidnapped Christine would drag her down, down—to the depths of hell if he could. And so, Raoul had continued his descent, intent on fighting for the woman he loved, even if it meant his own death.

But now he was stopped short, a watery barrier impeding his progress. He had known of the lake which traversed the foundations of the opera house, but he never dreamed he would one day stand on its shores as choppy waters rushed by his feet carrying on their waves such finality—such misery—such defeat.

 _He had not found her_.

It had seemed the only direction the ghost would travel—but how could he be expected to decipher the twisted inner workings of a madman's mind? The fiend had obviously taken another path.

Raoul's fingers curled into fists as his determination grew. He would have his brother organize a search party. They would explore every inch of every tunnel if need be, but they would smoke out the ghost. He _would_ rescue Christine.

His mind set on this new course of action, Raoul turned to go until he heard it. A high, mournful note echoed from some distant place. He stopped a moment, listening intently wishing for the sound to come again. When it did, his heart was filled with new hope, as there was no mistaking its source. Christine was trying to sing.

Turning again toward the watery darkness, Raoul realized that her voice was floating upon the ripples of the lake. He lifted his lantern and surveyed the shore until he noticed a thick wooden pole a few feet away. Hurrying forward to examine it more closely, he found that a piece of heavy rope had been tied around the top and left to dangle in the water. Lifting the rope in his hand, understanding suddenly dawned. This wasn't merely a pole—it was a _dock_. The Phantom had a boat!

Raoul looked at the lake once more. It was no longer a barrier, but rather simply another passageway in this underground labyrinth. And judging by the strained vocalizations echoing from beyond its depths, crossing it would lead him directly to Christine.

He rolled up his sleeves, knowing that while the Phantom had a boat, _he_ did not have access to any such mode of transportation. Setting his lantern on the shoreline, he faced the grim reality that he would be making the rest of his journey in total darkness.

"Hold on, Christine," Raoul murmured as he braced himself for the icy welcome of the waves. "I'm coming." And taking a deep, filling breath, into the swirling waters he dove.

* * *

"Sing, Christine!" Erik roared at his cowering student. "Sing!"

"I am trying!" Christine responded, her voice thick with the wet tears that streamed down her cheeks.

"You are hardly trying!" he snapped back at her as he lifted his bow to his violin strings once more. "Begin again—and this time do it right!" he barked, as he pulled his bow across the strings.

Christine squared her shoulders and opened her mouth for a deep breath, but when she tried to sing, nothing more than a hiccupped sob emerged. "Angel, I…"

"Don't call me that!" Erik leaned forward and bellowed, the pain in his head intensifying with her every resistance. He watched as Christine fell to the ground in fear, scrambling, on her knees, across the floor.

"W…w…what…" Christine struggled to ask, "a…am I to c…c…call you then? For Angel is the only name I know…"

"Call me nothing!" Erik hissed, dropping his body low, shoving his face right up against hers, causing her to close her eyes and look away. "For that is what I am. Nothing—worthless—The Almighty's singular mistake. But music…" he added, slowly unfurling himself so that he stood at his full height, "…music obeys my every whim—follows my most complex instructions. And so must you," he told her, holding his bow up to punctuate his point, "—if you are to be music's slave."

Christine only shook her head, unwilling—or unable—to make any other response.

"So I command you again, Christine," Erik continued, once again positioning his bow. "Sing! Sing for the music. Sing," he added, as if an afterthought, "for me."

"Christine sings for herself," a voice sounded from behind him, and Erik around whirled just as the blasted nobleman rose from the lake. "Or she sings for an audience…but she does not sing for you."

"Ahhh," Erik extended his arms out to his sides and bowed low to greet his unexpected guest. "How lovely of you to have joined us."

"Raoul!" Christine shouted.

"Christine," Raoul answered, quickly scanning her form from where he stood, to make sure she was alright. "Thank God. I have come to take you home."

"Oh, but she is home," Erik informed him with a sinister curl of his lips despite the pounding in his head. "Safely tucked within music's very bosom."

"You are sick," Raoul spat, disdain dripping from his tone as palpably as water dripped from his clothes. "And," he added, taking a step in Christine's direction, "you will not win."

"Oh, but Monsieur," Erik repositioned himself, blocking Raoul's path with his own form. "I already have. Christine belongs to me, now, and she will have no distractions to keep her from her art. So I would advise you," he added through clenched teeth, "to be on your way before I decide that you will not be leaving either."

"I cannot do that," Raoul simply shook his head, "For Christine does not belong to you."

"I _made_ her!" Erik snapped, raising his voice in anger.

"You manipulated her!" Raoul yelled back. "You used her loneliness and her shyness against her to make her think she was beholden to you, but you did not give her her voice! That was hers alone, and she surely sees by now that she owes you nothing! Now we are leaving this place—I am taking the boat and taking her home. Christine," he added, holding his hand out to her, "come to me."

Erik's felt as if his head would split in two. He looked at the blond nobleman before him, hatred and pain clouding his vision. This could not be happening again—not again. He had taken his love from him once—had stolen her right out of his arms with his winsome words and his soft and gentle kisses. He had manipulated her away from him—after she had sworn—after she had promised—to belong to him. To _love_ him forever.

Desperately trying to stop the throbbing in his head, he covered his ears with his. She would not leave him. She would not betray him again. She had promised _him_ —she had made her vow. She was his—she'd told him so herself. _I am yours…Erik. Forever…_ He remembered her low sultry voice whispering the words, his name as if a prayer when uttered by her luscious red lips.

His name… _she'd said his name?_

 _Angel is the only name I know…_

Through his confusion, he turned to look at her, expecting her to meet his eyes—certain that she would cross the distance between them, standing firm by his side to show the young, handsome nobleman that she had made her choice. But instead, he saw her nodding, and leaping to her feet to rush forward, the red rose falling from her hair as she did so, landing, abandoned, on the floor.

 _"_ _NOOOOOOOOOOO!"_ a mighty roar emanated from his lips, as he rushed toward the vicomte'. He would not let it happen again. He could not let him take his world from him a second time!

Throwing all his strength at the smaller man, Erik caused him to stumble backwards, pinning him against the wall. He curled his fingers around his captive's neck and he pressed, intent on squeezing the life out of him. "You cannot have her," he bellowed. "You cannot have her. She is mine. She is _mine_. To you she is a trophy—a prize to be won! But I love her, damn you! I've loved her from the moment I laid eyes on her. She _saved_ me—and you cannot have her."

* * *

Annie did not feel a single shred of guilt as she took her first steps into the darkness of Erik's underground home. Strange, she'd always imagined that murderers _would_ experience at least some measure of uncertainty about their crimes. But she had killed to protect Erik—to avenge her daughter. She knew, if faced with the choice again and again, she would always do the same thing. Yusef had been just like the master—exactly like her step-father. He had deserved to die. There was no time to waste on second guessing something that should have happened long ago. With Meg in Giselle's care, on their way to the safety of the country estate, her only concern was to get to Erik. But as she navigated her way through the darkened rooms, she began to hear voices. Loud voices. Angry voices.

"Oh no," she muttered under her breath, quickening her steps, terrified that she was too late—that the gendarme had found him. She felt her heart beating faster as the voices escalated and she heard the sound of a woman crying. When she rounded the final corner, however, Annie found a far different scene on the shores of the lake than the one she was expecting.

The crying she'd heard, of course, had been Christine—but she was no longer crying. She was screaming. And her reason became evident as Annie scanned the room and saw Erik pinning Raoul against a wall, his long slender fingers curled tightly around the younger man's neck. The vicomté was struggling against him, but he was no match for Erik's superior strength—fueled, and made ever more lethal, by his obvious rage.

Annie was frozen in her spot. She knew it was imperative that she act—that she somehow intervene. Yusef, perhaps, had deserved to die, but the vicomté—he was innocent of any crime. Yet, she did not know _what_ to do. Erik had become so unpredictable—like a wounded animal. The last thing she wanted to do was somehow make the situation worse—if that were even possible.

"You cannot have her," she heard Erik shriek, then sob _._ "You can _not_! She is mine. _Mine_."

Annie knew she should be focused on figuring out how to intervene, but her heart shattered a little more with each word that tore from Erik's lips. The anguish he was feeling! The pain she herself had inflicted upon him! Would they ever have arrived at this moment if she had not turned him away? Would Signor Piangi still be alive if Erik had never tangled with Yusef on behalf of her daughter? Would _she_ still be the object of his affections, saving Christine and Raoul all this agony? All this grief?

"To you she is a trophy," Erik spat. "—a prize to be won! But I _love_ her, damn you! I've loved her from the moment I laid eyes on her."

Annie inhaled sharply, Erik's words as a dagger twisting in the chest. To hear him say the words—he _loved_ her! He loved Christine! And yet where was the hope that was supposed to come with love? The joy? Would love forever bring him only misery?

"She _saved_ me," Erik added, though between Christine's screams and the pounding in her own ears Annie was almost beyond hearing now. "—and you cannot have her. You cannot take my Annie away from me!"

Suddenly, the world went silent _._ Was her foolish heart, twisting Erik's words so that she heard what she wanted to hear? Had he truly said _her_ name, and not Christine's?

"She is mine," Erik sobbed, shaking as Raoul's struggles began to fade, his face turning a dangerous shade of red. "I need my Annie."

There it was again. He _had_ said it. He had said her name. He was not fighting for Christine. He was fighting for _her_. For _their_ love that she thought they had lost so many years ago.

"Erik," she said softly, stepping forth from the shadows, suddenly knowing with certainty exactly what to do. "I am here."

Annie knew he had heard her voice, because she saw the sudden stiffening of his back—the tilt of his head as he processed her words. But then he shook his head, muttering to himself, "No. No."

"Yes, Erik," she insisted, walking slowly closer. Making eye contact with Christine, she raised her finger to her lips, signaling that her former charge should still her screams. Understanding her message, Christine nodded, her lips still quivering in fear, but trusting, at least for the moment, that Madame Giry would make things alright.

"I am here, Erik," Annie repeated, her voice warm with the love and affection she still felt for him. "Your Annie. I have come for you. But you must do something for me, Erik," she added gently, as she continued to move carefully toward him, praying that her pleas would be strong enough to get through to him. "You must let the vicomté go."

"Th…the vicomté?" Erik asked, loosening his hold and staring at the man before him as if he had no idea who he was. "But he is trying to take you away…." His voice trailed off as he continued to scrutinize the wretched creature in his deathly grip.

"Erik, he has no interest in me," Annie assured him. "He _never_ did. He only loves Christine, and he came for _her_. Not for me."

"Chris…tine…?" Erik asked, releasing Raoul from his hold and staggering back. He watched as the young girl—the girl who sang—ran to the man whose neck his fingers had just circled. As the… _vicomté_ … fell to the ground, gasping for air, Christine fell to the floor beside him, cradling him in her arms and stroking his hair as she rocked him back and forth.

"Oh, Raoul. Raoul," his name fell from her lips again and again, as she peppered his forehead with soft kisses.

Erik stared at the couple before him, the pounding in his head near unbearable. What had he done? _What_ had he done?

"Erik," Annie commanded softly, wishing to distract his attention from the terrified couple, "Look at me."

Erik's feet moved first, his body slow to make the turn toward her—his eyes trained to the ground. His mask still lay on the stage in the auditorium, and his face was a stark reminder, not only of the cruelty of nature, but of the ravages of time. The deformity was still there, and even the untouched side of his face looked old—shattered—etched with lines of sorrow and confusion and so much pain. And as his golden eyes finally rose to meet her soft brown orbs, he began to sway on his feet.

Annie rushed forward, however, sweeping him into her arms before he was able to crumble to the ground.

"I'm right here, Erik," she murmured gently in his ear, kneeling with him on the shore of the lake, her embrace the only thing holding him upright.

"She…," Erik shivered, struggling to speak as he marveled at the warm, blessed feelin of her arms circling around him, "was not you."

"No," Annie shook her head, tears forming in her eyes. "No, she wasn't. But I _am_ here now, Erik," she added, bring up one hand to tenderly cup his cheek. "And I will not leave."

"Annie," Erik sobbed, suddenly pulling her tightly against him, burying his head in the crook of her neck. "Oh, my Annie."

"Yes, Erik," Annie murmured as she tightened her arms around him and closed her eyes as tears streamed down her face. " _Your_ Annie." For a moment as she simply reveled in the love that was flooding her heart. Love for him—love she would never deny again now that she knew it was returned. Oh, what fools they had been—running from this feeling when all the while, they should have been running into each other's arms, letting nothing or no one stand in their way.

Eventually, Annie opened her eyes, once again becoming aware that they were not alone. Christine and Raoul huddled tightly together on the shore of the lake. The vicomté, it seemed, had finally caught his breath—his color appearing a bit more normal. There were glaring red handprints upon his throat, but in time, Annie knew they would fade. He was alive. They were safe—which was more than she could say for Erik.

"Go," Annie murmured to the young couple quietly, trying not to disturb Erik as she did so. She lifted one of her arms for a brief moment to point toward the boat that Erik used to bring Christine across the lake. "Go now!" she mouthed again with a pointed expression when for a moment more they only continued to stare at the unexpected scene before them. Finally, however, Christine came to her senses. Scrambling to her feet, she held a hand out to Raoul, and together, they quickly climbed into the boat, untying it and using the pole to set off across the lake.

Once they were gone, Annie took another moment to simply hold her beloved, reveling in the glorious feeling of his body in her arms again, drinking in the scent of his hair. But she knew she could not relax in this bliss for long. They were still in danger.

"Erik," she whispered, pulling slightly back from their embrace, "we have to go."

"Go?" he asked, tightening his arms around her as he fought with the cobwebs that still clung to his mind. "Why?"

"Because, Erik," Annie tried to explain things as quickly as she could, "a man died when the chandelier fell…"

"Yusef…," Erik growled, bits of the night beginning to come back to him.

"You don't have to worry about him any longer, Erik," Annie told him matter of factly. "He is dead."

"Dead?" Erik repeated in surprise. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, Erik." Annie assured him. "I killed him."

Erik's eyes opened wide in horror. "Annie…how…why…?"

"That does not matter Erik!" Annie snapped, her patience being stretched to its limits. "They blame you, Erik. For the chandelier falling. Even though it was Yusef. And then—when you ran off with Christine…Erik," she took his hand in hers as she tried to make him understand. "In their eyes, you are a murderer _and_ a kidnapper. And now that Christine and Raoul have gone, they will return, Erik. With the gendarme. They will try to put you away…"

Erik looked down to where Annie's hands held his own. Her beautiful, graceful fingers were stained red. Blood. Yusef…

"You should let them take me, Annie!" Erik snarled, looking away as the full realization of the events of the evening finally hit him. "That is where I belong anyway—in a cage!"

"Erik, no!" Annie scolded, reaching out and taking his face between both hands. "That is madness!"

"Look at what I have done to you, Annie!" Erik countered, his tone full of self-disgust. "Look," he said, taking one of her hands in his and holding it up between them, "at the blood on your hands! I put that there, Annie. You said it yourself—everything between us ends in blood! It is time to put an end to it. Let the gendarme have me."

"No!" Annie shouted this time. "I will never let them have you. You are leaving here with me Erik—or if you refuse to come with me, I'll stay here with you."

"No!" Erik shook his head. "You cannot stay. You said it yourself…the gendarme will be coming…"

"And we will face them together," Annie interjected. "But I will not leave you here alone. I _can't_. You told Raoul that you needed me, Erik. Well, I need you too. I have needed you all along—and I have gone too long without you. I will _never_ leave you again."

Erik looked at the beautiful woman before him, and saw that familiar fire in her eyes. There

was no doubt in his mind that she meant every word she said. She would not be leaving without him, and so, against his better judgment, he would have to leave with her. "Where will we go, Annie?" he asked with a resigned sigh.

"We do not need a _place_ to go, Erik," Annie tearfully echoed words he had said to her years before. "We have _each other_. We will find a way. _Together_."

"Together," Erik responded, taking her hand in his. And once again, hand in hand, Erik and Annie made their way into the night.

 **AN: Together…they are together again! Whoopie!**

 **But of course, Annie had to follow Erik into the depths of hell to get to him. But now that she has finally reached him, she will never let him go again!**


	122. Chapter 122

CH 122

When Erik saw Yusef lying in the alley, the gaping hole in his neck revealed exactly the method by which Annie had dispatched his life. For a moment he froze, staring at the lifeless body of the man who had been the source of so much torment in his life, seeing not only his face, but that of the wicked shah, who had met the same end by his own actions. Yet Annie tugged gently on his hand, whispering, "Come on, Erik. He can't hurt anyone any longer." And giving Yusef's body one final glance, Erik allowed Annie to lead him away.

They clung to the shadows traversing the same streets they had traveled together so many times in their youth—when their heads were filled with dreams of a rosy future, fueled by the hopefulness and joy of their love. Never had they dreamed they would retrace their steps after so much suffering and so many years of sorrow had passed between them. It had seemed, in those early days, that nothing could ever come between them—and yet, nearly fifteen years since the last time they took this route, they were still very much apart.

Annie turned the key in the lock when they reached their destination, ushering Erik through the door and making certain to lock it behind them. She set about pulling down all the blinds on the windows, securing their location, as Erik simply stood in the entryway, memories a decade and a half old flooding back to his memory. The stale smell in the air was a testament to how long it had been since anyone had lived in this place, but it was still neat and tidy—very much the same cottage where he and Annie had resided when they'd first arrived in Paris.

It had not been their home. No, their sylvan cave was still the only home they'd acknowledged back in the early days—and later, they had regarded the chambers beneath the opera house as a sort of home. But still, they had laughed here—they had loved here—they had given each other their innocence. But a dark despair began to creep into Erik's heart as he recalled the fact that they had also fought here—more than they ever had when they had been living in the wilderness. Erik had blamed it on the fact that they were in a place that had been given to them by a handsome young stranger who had been able to provide for Annie something Erik might never be in a position to provide. A look of disgust crossed his lips and he glanced at the floor, acknowledging to himself that it was a pattern that had certainly continued in their lives. Giles had given her a home—a position—a family. He had bestowed upon her everything Erik had ever wanted to give her—and all that Erik ever did was take those things away.

 _What am I doing here?_ He asked himself as his eyes continued to scan the warmly painted walls, the soft blankets that were thrown over the arm of the settee and chairs in the parlor. _Annie does not deserve the misery I carry everywhere I go. Once again, because of me, her world is turned upside down._

"Meg is with Giselle," Annie said awkwardly, when she glanced over at Erik and noticed the turmoil that was etched on his face.

"Meg!" Erik gasped in alarm, suddenly remembering another person he had put in danger by creating this troubling situation. "Is she alright? Is she safe?"

"Yes, Erik," Annie assured him, walking over to where he still stood. "I told you. She's with Giselle. They have gone to the country—to an estate…the family owns. I told them we would join them as soon as we could. They will be safe there."

"Good," Erik nodded, his voice trailing off as he looked away again. "Good."

Annie watched him a moment more, not certain what to say next. "W… would you like to have a seat?" she forced herself to speak, gesturing toward the settee. "I just…I just want to try to wash my hands if the pump in the kitchen is still working. I…I'll be right back," she promised hurrying off into the next room. Had there ever been such awful awkwardness between them? Was this the way things would be from now on?

Annie had to fiddle with the pump a few times to get the water to flow, but eventually it did. She wet the old bar of lye soap, rubbing it between her hands, watching as it turned from white to a deep russet color. But quickly, it became slippery, and her trembling hands could not keep hold. Time and again, the slick object slipped from her fingers leaving her skin stained the same rusty brown. Would her skin be forever tainted—always marked by the pain and suffering she had inflicted? Frantically she searched for a sponge, with which she could scrub the offending stain from her flesh. But the harsh pull of the rough material only reddened her hands even more, until a second set of hands snaked around her from behind, removing the sponge and taking her palms in their gentle grasp.

Long fingers gingerly stroked and caressed hers, smoothing the lather across her skin, tenderness finding far more success than severity, as the dark blemishes began to disappear. Annie closed her eyes and leaned back against the firm chest she had always known as a strong, warm shelter, those hands completing their task before softly enclosing hers with a soft cloth, patting gently to wick away the moisture. When the towel had been set aside, those same hands closed around her waist, and Annie turned her body to face her caretaker.

He gazed upon her with heavy eyelids as he slowly began to lower his head. Annie tipped her head up, desperate, after so many years, to receive his kiss. Before their lips could meet, however, Erik hesitated, one of his now trembling hands reaching up to brush against her cheek. Annie shuddered from his touch, whispering, "Erik," as she pressed herself more closely into his embrace.

"Annie," he sighed, just as he could no longer keep his lips from touching her. Lightly, tentatively, he kissed her, as if searching for assurance that he was, indeed, wanted.

Annie released a quiet sigh as she reached up to rest her hand on the back of his neck, letting her fingers tangle in the ends of his hair, giving Erik all the confirmation he needed. He whimpered at the tenderness that flowed from their lips' joining, melting the block of solid ice that had formed over his heart and filling his limbs with blessed, longed for warmth.

When at length they pulled apart, their eyes glistened with tears as they fought to steady shaking limbs and shallow breathing.

"Annie," Erik whispered, his voice hoarse with the barely contained emotions that were coursing through his veins. He reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face as he added, "I…I'm sorry, but…I had to kiss you at least one last time…"

"Erik," Annie interjected, shaking her head in confusion. "What do you mean, 'one last time…?' I…I don't understand."

"Before I go, Annie," Erik told her plainly.

"Go?" she asked, shocked, pulling out of his embrace. "What do you mean? Where are you going?"

"Away, Annie," Erik responded, sadness in his eyes. "For good. I never should have returned in the first place. After so many years of missing you and regretting our past mistakes, somehow I managed to convince myself that you might be willing to give us another try. But when I realized that you were still very much _Madame Giry_ , I should have simply gone. But I didn't. I fashioned myself the opera house's savior—just to be close to you—and now look at the mess I've created. I used, and terrified an innocent girl, the opera house has descended into mayhem. Your life is in shambles. It has all been an unmitigated disaster. I am going to go, once and for all, so that I cannot create any more problems for you Annie. And don't worry—though I will always think of you, you can go the rest of your days secure in the knowledge that I will never again darken your doorstep. And I hope, in time, things can return to normal and you can have the life you deserve."

Annie just stared at Erik, dumbfounded, for a moment, until, without warning, her hand connected hard with his cheek, causing a loud crack. The force of her blow caused Erik to stagger backward and cover his mouth with his hand. Feeling something sticky there, he brought his fingers back only to see a bright red stain.

"Damn you, Erik!" Annie railed, angry tears threatening to spill forth. "After all the pain we've been through for so many years, how dare you speak of leaving again?"

"Your life would be so much easier without me, Annie," Erik insisted, shocked at her vehemence. "I am only looking out for your best interest…,"

Annie's eyes darkened and she looked, for a moment, as if she were about to hit him again. But instead, she only threw her arms up into the air and cried, "Dear God, Erik! Time and time again, you have decided what's best for me—what I deserve—what I should have. How is it that after 20 years you still will not allow me to decide what's best for my own life?"

"Annie, I…" Erik began, trying to make her see reason, but she cut him off.

"I never wanted to come to Paris—I never needed a life on the stage. Yes," she admitted, "I thought it would be special to follow in my mother's footsteps, but I didn't _need_ that. All I wanted, since I was a 12-year-old girl, was to be with you—to live out my life by your side. I told you that, but you didn't listen. You dragged us here, swearing that we would still be together, that you would never leave me—and then you _left_ me!"

"Annie," Erik interjected, "I only left for a job—so I could support you—build us a future."

"And that is exactly what I mean!" Annie shouted back. "I didn't _want_ that, Erik! I didn't need a fancy home or a prestigious career. All I wanted was to return to the days when life was just you and me—and we were happy. Dear God, Erik—do you realize that after you left, I prayed that I was pregnant with your child? So that I would be expelled from the opera house, and you would be forced to let me come to you?"

"Annie, no," Erik shook his head, taken off guard by her confession. "I would not have wanted you to be shamed like that."

"And _I_ cared nothing for the shame," Annie revealed, her angry tears finally spilling down her cheeks. "If it meant I could be with you—if I could follow you to Monaco—and Persia."

"No!" Erik barked, his eyes glinting in remembered anger. "I will never be sorry that you were not with me in Persia. That was a twisted, horrific place at the time, where women were regarded as nothing more than toys to be used at a man's whim. I cannot bear to think of what could have happened to you there. It would have destroyed you."

"It _did_ destroy me Erik!" Annie shouted. "Don't you see? When I thought you were dead a part of me died as well." Feeling herself start to sway, Annie took hold of the back of a chair. "I couldn't eat—I couldn't sleep—I could barely force myself to breathe. Every hour—every second was nothing but pain. I was empty inside, Erik. If it weren't for Giles—I truly believe I would have died of a broken heart."

"Oh, but he could never let that happen," Erik scorned, pushing aside his feelings of guilt to focus on the anger he had always held for Giry. "He rode in to rescue the poor grief-stricken damsel in distress—to ease her pain over her lost love. _So_ heroic of him! He was even selfless enough to marry her, and beget a child with her! I'm sure _that_ took a great deal of sacrifice!"

"He saved me, Erik…" Annie replied.

"And is that why," Erik asked, "after more than a decade, you still wear widow's black? Why I have overheard you speaking to his picture? Is it out of gratitude that you still wear his ring?" he demanded, pointing to the simple gold band that still rested on the fourth finger of her left hand.

"You're right, Erik," Annie admitted, her jaw set in anger, "that I do still speak to Giles. He was a very good friend to me and he always listened to what I said. He cared about my feelings, which is why, while he was alive, and even now, I often speak to him about how much I miss _you_. And the black is because I _am_ still in mourning—not only for my husband, but for the man I loved and lost not once, but twice."

"And no, it is not out of gratitude that I wear his ring," Annie said stonily. "But out of great affection and respect for the man who was my dear friend, my husband and the father of my child. It was out of love, hope and great yearning, however, that I wore _your_ ring around my neck, close to my heart for ten years. Until you told me it was meaningless."

Annie's honesty sent Erik's defensive walls crumbling to the ground. He stared at her for a moment, before swallowing hard and whispering "Annie, I... I'm so sorry. I had no idea. I ... I thought…I mean, I just assumed..."

"Exactly!" Annie snapped. "Once again, you thought, and you assumed you knew what I was thinking instead of simply listening to me. Why didn't you just come to me, Erik? Why all this nonsense with Christine, and the ghost?"

"I…" Erik began, mortified to admit what he was about to say, "I assumed you were still in love with Giry."

"And your assumptions have always been the root of our problems."

Erik was quiet for a moment as he took in everything she had to say. Then, without a word, he reached into his breast pocket, procuring the glittering ring that he had carried with him since the night she left it on his table. "This ring..." he began, his voice hushed, as he stared at the still brilliant stone, "it held great meaning, Annie. It was given to me by Yasmin—the little slave girl who had cared for me in Persia. She told me to give it to you—and that was my plan. It was all I dreamt about on the journey back to Paris—of seeing you again, and catching you up in my arms. Of placing this ring on your finger and finally, after so many years of separation, of being your husband. Until I found that you already had one."

Annie closed her eyes as she relived the bittersweet reunion they shared when she found out her love was alive—but she could not have him because she was married to someone else.

"I thought I'd lost you," Erik continued, softly.

"You never lost me," Annie shook her head sadly.

"You married him. You bore his child. You loved him."

"I _did_ love Giles," Annie affirmed. "I cared for him a great deal. But Erik, you have _always_ owned my soul. That _never_ changed. I never stopped loving _you_."

"I began to believe that," Erik nodded softly. "After he died, when you came to me, I…," he paused and took a deep breath to calm turbulence he was beginning to feel inside. "I wanted to give you time, Annie. I wanted to give you space. But I had always hoped you would one day confess you were still in love with me—and that we could pick up where we left off. We could marry and have the life we were meant to have."

"I was so confused, Erik," Annie admitted, moving to the front of the chair and sitting down, bringing her left hand up to rub her forehead. " _Of course_ , I still loved you—I just told you, I never stopped. But my husband had just died and I felt completely responsible for it. Not only had I made my continued feelings for you plain during our entire marriage—not only was I keeping your return a secret from him—but I am the reason he ran in front of that carriage. He died saving me, Erik. And _still_ all I could think of was you. And it seemed like it was wrong to still love you so much. So I…I just shut off my emotions—because I couldn't deal with them. I couldn't handle the guilt I felt about Giles, or my continued love for you. But I also couldn't deny the desire I felt for you—the need to have you in my life. So…" she swallowed hard shaking her head, "I didn't. Being with you, Erik, took away my emptiness—it helped me put aside my sorrow. But I am so sorry for what it did to you."

"Annie," he said, kneeling down before her and reaching out for her hand. "I was just so grateful that you came back to me. You let me hold you while you you slept. You let me get to know your little girl. I cherished our time together, because I felt like I had a home again."

"I know you wanted more, Erik," Annie shook her head, not able to be easily swayed by his sweet words. "I know there were so many times you would have told me you loved me if I hadn't stopped you. There were so many times I wanted to just scream it back. But I just couldn't then, Erik. Your touch was the only thing that could stop my head from pounding with anger and grief. Your arms were the only place I could relax enough to sleep. You made me feel like I could breathe again. But those were selfish reasons to be with you. I shouldn't have given you my body until I was also ready to give you my soul. But my soul just wasn't ready." Sadness filling Annie's eyes, she looked away, adding on a sob, "And then my body betrayed us…"

Erik watched as Annie quietly wept, and he knew exactly why her tears fell, but he knew not what to say to ease the pain of the loss they both suffered. Instead, he simply rested an arm on her shoulder. "Annie…"

Annie fell apart at the sound of his voice. Leaning forward, she rested her head against his chest as his arms came up to wrap around her back. "Our baby, Erik," she moaned pitifully, her voice a high-pitched wail. "Our baby. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Anger pierced Erik's heart at the sound of her plaintive cries. Scornful, disdainful anger at himself. He had brought her to that heartbreaking night. How could he have taken advantage of her when she had obviously been in such a fragile state? How could he have lain with her, time and again, thinking only of his pleasure—of the comfort she gave him with her touch—and not the consequences of their joining? Especially when he knew he could never give her a healthy, beautiful child like Meg? Not in the state his body was in.

"Shhhh, Annie," he whispered darkly. "You need not apologize. After all, it was my twisted, infected flesh that tainted the child. That is why it could not be brought forth into this world."

"Erik," Annie said looking up and shaking her head, "No. You have no idea why our child perished."

"But of course I do," he insisted. "You already have a child with your husband, and she is beautiful—perfect—a child you should be very proud of. Not like the spawn of hell that would have issued forth from my loins."

"Erik!" Annie snapped in anger, pulling away from him. "Don't you dare refer to our baby that way! I _mourned_ for our child. I _grieved_ for it. I wished every day that things could have been different—that I could have had the privilege of holding it—of nursing it and caring for it…"

"That is because," Erik interrupted, his heart aching at the tenderness with which she spoke of their ill-fated offspring, "you are a good woman. Your love obviously extends to the world's less than perfect creatures."

"No," Annie corrected him, "Our child _would_ have been perfect."

"Despite having me as a father?" Erik asked looking down.

" _Because_ you were its father," Annie told him. "Our child would have been the answer to a prayer—the realization of a long-held dream. For so long, I had ached to carry your child in my womb—to bring forth a life created from our love. That baby would have been perfect because it would have been yours. And mine. _Ours_. And I would have loved it, if only I had the chance..." Annie's voice trailed off sadly, her hands clasping together in her lap as her eyes appeared to look at some point far in the distance.

"I grieved for our child too, Annie, if it makes a difference," Erik admitted quietly. "I always wondered if it was a boy or a girl."

"I always picture a boy," Annie answered quickly, having given the matter much thought over the past ten years, "with bouncy ebony curls and golden eyes."  
"You, would want our child to have my eyes?" Erik asked in surprise.

"Yes," Annie nodded, meeting his gaze, "because they're beautiful."

"Annie…" Erik began, but Annie placed her finger on his lips.

"Erik, I'm sorry for the things I said that night. I had been running from my emotions for so long that I didn't know how to face them when they all crashed down around me. And I lashed out at you, when I should have turned to you, so that we could work through our grief together. Believe you me, I have cursed my words over and over these last ten years—because they made you leave."

"I thought you wanted me to go, Annie," Erik responded in a small voice.

"I think, at the moment I wanted everyone gone," Annie answered, "But when I woke in the morning, I had come to my senses. I ran down below the opera house to apologize, but you were gone," she added this last part with tears in her eyes.

 _The next morning_ , Erik thought. _It all could have been resolved the next morning. If only he had waited…_

"I'm sorry I ran, Annie," he told her sincerely. "I should have stayed to help you through."

"I gave you every reason to go," Annie admitted sadly. "If only there were a way to go back in time and make it as if those words were never spoken, I would do it in a heartbeat. In less than that if it meant saving you from a moment of pain."

Erik gazed upon her, her eyes puffy from tears that should never have been shed, her face exhausted after having relived so many raw emotions. He wished he could somehow grant her her wish—that he could erase the last ten years, and make it so that they had never happened. He wished that they could go back ten years to when the dining table had been set with roses, the night was filled with hope, and a joyful question danced on his lips, just waiting to be asked. But he realized it was impossible to go back. That didn't mean, however, that all was lost.

"Annie," Erik said, reaching out and taking her hand in his, bringing it tenderly to his lips, "we can't go back."

"I know Erik," Annie sighed, shaking her head and closing her eyes against the tears that threatened once again.

"These things happened, and we both made so many far-reaching mistakes, so no, we _can't_ go back."

"I…I understand," Annie nodded, realizing that she was a fool to think things could have ended any differently.

"But, Annie," Erik added, tipping her chin so that she was facing him, "look at me." Slowly, Annie opened her eyes and when her gaze locked with his, Erik smiled as he told her, "We can go forward."

"What?" Annie asked, her eyes narrowing in confusion.

"We can go forward Annie," Erik repeated, his smile growing wider. "All of these pains, all of these missteps—they were simply sour notes in an introduction. But, once struck, no matter how painful a note might have been, it is gone—dissolved into the universe—and the next notes must come. If this new melody is more beautiful than the tune that came before, the memory of a clumsy, fumbling prelude will fade in comparison to the glory of the symphony."

"Erik," Annie shook her head, "what on _earth_ are you talking about?"

Releasing a little chuckle, Erik squeezed her hand. "Everything you've said tonight has proven one thing to me. We are so much better together than when we are trying to keep ourselves apart—no matter the stupid, noble reasons we might have. We belong to each other—we have from the moment we first laid eyes on one another in that gypsy tent all those years ago. When we try to deny that fact, we are both miserable. So, Annie Laramie," he asked, while reaching into his pocket to retrieve the ring once more, "will you please marry me? Once and for all?"

Annie's eyes brightened, and her mouth opened wide. "Marry you, Erik?" she asked in disbelief.

"Please, Annie," Erik nodded. "This ring has gone far too long not being on your finger, and I'm already on my knees. Our prelude is over. It is time for our symphony to begin."

 **AN: Well, Annie sure gave Erik a well deserved slap! But they finally talked-and seemed to work through many of their problems. Now there's only one thing to say, Annie. YES!**


	123. Chapter 123

CH 123

Annie stared back at Erik in silent disbelief. Her mind was desperately trying to make sense of what had just happened. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she was nothing more than the box keeper—the messenger for a ghost. She delivered his notes, she did his bidding, and he'd refused to even call her by her first name, allowing no acknowledgement of the bond they had once shared. Yet now, that same apparition held her hand as a flesh and blood man, offering her a dazzling ring that paled in comparison to the love that it symbolized. Could it be true? Could this be real? It was dizzying. It was maddening. And it made absolutely no sense.

"Annie?" Erik whispered her name again, holding the ring closer to her as the certainty in his own voice began to falter. "Please?"

Annie looked down at the ring he offered—the one that had hung, for a decade, around her neck. The beautiful center topaz was surrounded by so many glittering black diamonds. It was exquisite—breathtaking. But in no way did it match the magnificence of the two golden eyes that glowed intently at her, pleading with her—begging her to say yes. All at once, joy exploded in her heart and she no longer cared if _anything_ made sense. The only thing that mattered at all, was her Erik.

"Yes Erik!" She gasped, throwing her arms around his neck.

"Y…yes?" Erik whispered back in surprise, his own arms slowly folding around her back.

"Yes…," she buried her head in his shoulder, and her tears dampened the collar of his shirt, "…yes!"

 _Yes_! Erik thought, as he tightened his arms around her, sure he would never let her go. His Annie said yes! She had agreed to be his wife!

"Oh my Annie," he whispered into her ear, placing a quick kiss against it, "I love you. I have always loved you!"

"And I you, Erik," she murmured against his throat. "I couldn't stop loving you if I wanted to. I _knew_ from the very first night I saw you. I just knew."

"What did you know, Annie," he asked her breathlessly, desperate for any words that would fall from her lips after so long a silence between them.

Annie pulled a little bit away from his embrace so that she could look at him with glistening eyes. "I knew we were connected," she confessed. "I knew, somehow, from that first moment, that I wound be bound to you forever." Smiling, she added, "I was right! Through all the years—through all sufferings—my love for you has never faltered. And I know it never will. You are my destiny."

"And you are my true angel," Erik whispered, tipping her chin up so that he could claim her lips with his own. "Forever, my beautiful, wild rose."

Annie melted in his kiss, pressing her body closely against his. Her fingers slid up his neck to tangle in his soft hair, and when she felt the tip of his tongue teasing at her lips, she parted them eagerly, sighing as he deepened their kiss. For so long she had ached for his touch, yearned for his lips upon hers. And now...to have him...to _hold_ him... It was her every dream realized. Every cell in her body was alive, her blood surging, her heart thrumming a wild, triumphant beat. Her Erik was back! He was finally _hers_! And nothing would ever again come between them.

"Annie," Erik gasped, pulling suddenly away from her embrace. "Let's go!" He added, rising to his full height and grabbing her hand to pull her along.

"What?" Annie responded, startled as Erik dragged her to her feet. "Erik, what are you talking about? Where are we going?"

"To find a preacher," he told her, as a rakish smile bloomed across his lips.

"A preacher?" Annie asked incredulously. "At this hour?"

"Yes, Annie," Erik nodded, his eyes growing tender, as he reached up to trace a finger along her cheek. "I have waited far too long to make you my bride. I will wait no more."

Annie felt herself swoon, as she whispered, "Tonight I will be your wife."

"I will do everything in my power to make it so," Erik vowed as he smiled down on her. "Even if it means breaking down the church door!"

"I'm not sure that's the _best_ course of action, Erik," Annie said, chuckling. "Certainly, if we simply knock loudly enough, the priest will open the door."

"For his sake, I hope so," Erik answered, resting his hands on her waist and pulling her in close to him. "For nothing is going to stop me from marrying you tonight."

Another quick kiss and Erik was once again holding Annie's hand as he dragged her toward the door, when he stopped abruptly, nearly causing Annie to collide with him from behind.

"Annie!" he exclaimed, eyes wide as if in sudden realization. "I can't do this!"

"Erik?" Annie asked, in confusion. How could his feelings have changed so rapidly? "What do you mean?"

"My mask!" he told her, lifting his hand to his cheek. "It's gone. It must still be on the stage at the Garnier. I…I…" he sputtered, torn between running to the nearest preacher he could find so that he could finally make this beautiful woman his wife, and hiding in shame at the awareness that his deformity was exposed.

"Erik," Annie said, her calm expression offering reassurance. "Shhhh. We will fix this."

Taking Erik's hands in hers, she led him to the settee, bidding him to sit down. She then removed herself from the room, only to return moments later with scissors, thread and a white linen cloth. With a loving smile, she sat down beside Erik and began her work.

Over the years, Erik's style of mask had changed. He most recently had taken to wearing one made of white leather, that fit the contours of his cheekbones flawlessly. However, as he watched wordlessly, while Annie cut away enough of the cloth to fashion a crude, simple cover for his face, his heart swelled with love for her. He was reminded of the day, long ago in her stepfather's barn, when she had been so offended by the itchy, burlap mask the gypsies had given him, that she insisted upon burning it in the fire. She had sewn him a mask then too, cut out of the soft cotton of her father's shirt. From the moment Erik placed it on his face, he had felt accepted, cared for— _loved_. SO many years had passed—so much turmoil had come and gone—and still, still, Annie was right behind him, accepting him, caring for him, _loving_ him.

"Here you go, Erik," Annie said with a smile, as she leaned over to tie the mask behind his head. "Now remember my rules," she teased with a glint in her eye. "You can wear this in public, but as soon as we get home…"

"You shall have _all_ of me," Erik interjected huskily as he reached forward and traced the outline of her lip, his golden eyes glowing with emotion. "Forever, I shall be yours, Annie. I love you," he added in a whisper, leaning in as his eyelids closed.

"And I love you, Erik," she sighed back, allowing Erik to claim her lips once again. Their kiss lingered for a few moments, making the thought of leaving the cottage right then almost painful. But when Annie felt the familiar heat begin to rise in her stomach, and heard Erik's breathing grow ragged, she pulled away. "Come on, Erik," she said forcing herself from the settee and extending her hand to him. "You have no more excuses not to marry me!"

* * *

It was well into the early morning hours when Erik and Annie finally emerged from the cottage hand in hand. Not wishing to be anywhere near Paris, they made their way to the small Church not far from the cottage, sticking to the shadows, even though there was nearly no one else about.

The Church of St. Brendan was only a single room—more of a chapel—with a meager parsonage built behind it. It was to this second building that Erik led them, wasting no time before pounding on the door loud enough to raise the dead.

"Erik," Annie whispered, suddenly feeling very guilty about rousing the pastor from his sleep. "Perhaps we should come back in the morning…"

"Annie," Erik said, continuing to knock, "it _is_ morning."

"Erik," Annie giggled, despite herself. "You know what I mean."

"Annie," Erik murmured low and deep, ceasing his assault on the door to look her very seriously in the eyes. "Would you truly deny me the privilege of making love to my wife for yet another night?"

Feeling her stomach flip flop, Annie swayed a little on her feet before Erik steadied her with a hand on her shoulder. "Not at all, Erik," she murmured back. "Please continue."

Staring at her a moment more, as if he were picturing in his mind very vividly the benefits their impending nuptials would bring, Erik raised his fist to knock once more. But it was not necessary.

"May I help you?" an elderly gentleman asked as the door swung open. His hair was all askew, his robe hastily tied about his waist, he carried a thick prayer book in his left hand. "I…is there some kind of an emergency?"

"No," Annie began sheepishly.

"We must be married at once," Erik insisted confidently, standing tall and gazing down his nose at the priest.

"You…," the bleary-eyed minister blinked several times as he directed his attention to Erik, "wish to be _married_?"

"That is what I said," Erik nodded. "Now, let us commence with the ceremony."

"But…" the priest shook his head, his eyes narrowing in confusion, "that is not an emergency…"

"The emergency will occur," Erik shot back, his jaw set in irritation, "if we are not wed immediately…"

"Are you…" the priest asked, hardly comprehending what this strange man in black was saying to him, " _threatening_ me?"

"I am merely stating a f…," Erik snapped but Annie interrupted, putting herself between her irritated fiancé and the befuddled priest. Keeping her voice soft, she explained, "Father, I am a widow. My former husband has been dead a long time, and wished only for my happiness in his passing. My daughter is away, and I have no other family. My…" she faltered a moment before smiling and taking Erik's hand, "fiancé and I have been wishing to marry for almost fifteen years, but there have been many mistakes and various barriers to our joining. Finally, there is no longer anything standing in our way, and we only beg your help to make our union official."

The priest gazed at Annie, and felt his heart softening, even as her affianced still troubled him somewhat. He knew there was more to this story, but the woman's eyes were pleading so sincerely, that he found himself relenting.

"This is all highly irregular!" he insisted, throwing a glare in Erik's direction. But as his eyes returned to Annie, his gaze softened. "And you, my dear, are not even dressed for a wedding."

"I find that it matters not to me, Father," Annie responded. "All that is important is that I marry this man. For all of his bluster," she added, giving Erik a scolding glance, "I love him. And I believe that God wills us to be together—for there is nothing but misery when we are apart."

"God _does_ wish for all of his children to be happy," the priest nodded kindly. Turning to Erik, his face grew stern. "Monsieur, I will open the Church doors in exactly ten minutes. You shall meet me at them, to gain entry into the sanctuary. Your bride, however, shall be coming with me now."

"I shall not be parted from her," Erik declared, indignantly.

"After the ceremony, no man shall have any right to pull you asunder," the priest nodded. "However, right now, she comes with me!"

Annie snickered quietly to herself. In a soft voice, she said, "It is alright, Erik. What is ten minutes on the first steps to forever?"

Reluctantly, Erik conceded. "Very well, _Father_ ," he sneered. "But if that door is not open in ten minutes' time, so help me…"

"Let us go, Madame," the priest said, taking Annie's arm. "I fear we are on a timetable." And giving Erik one more disapproving glare, he led Annie into the parsonage.

* * *

The priest was true to his word, and it was actually only nine minutes before the door to St. Brendan's was open, and Erik stormed inside, pushing past the elderly clergyman and stalking his way over to the altar. But Annie was nowhere to be seen.

"Where is she?" Erik demanded, immediately regretting his decision to let her go off alone with the priest.

"She is getting ready," the priest answered, rolling his eyes at Erik. "This is already a very unconventional wedding day—I thought at least she could make an entrance."

"An…entrance?" Erik asked confused, but any further words died on his tongue, for at that moment, a door opened from the side of the altar and his beloved Annie appeared.

She was still dressed all in black, the priest not having had any women's garments readily accessible, but her hair had been loosed from the binding braid. It cascaded gently down her back in the same dizzying waves that Erik had lost himself in countless times, and his fingers almost hurt for want of touching them. In her hands, she carried a single red rose, plucked, no doubt, from the parsonage garden, accompanied by a trailing set of white rosary beads—an apparent gift from the priest himself. She was a vision of loveliness—a beauty who stole Erik's breath and set his heart to beating. But her eyes were most beautiful of all—for the love and joy that glittered in those two precious orbs put the stars and even the sun to shame.

"Annie," he gasped, when at last she reached his side.

"Erik," she whispered, smiling brightly at him.

She was too beautiful not to touch—too lovely not to kiss—and Erik found himself leaning forward to drink from the sweetness he knew he would find on her lips.

"Now, now," the priest interrupted with a loud clearing of his throat. "It's not time for that just yet. There are vows to say first."

Erik growled low in his throat as he turned to the priest. "Then I shall not _waste_ any more time!" Redirecting his gaze toward his waiting bride, Erik took a deep breath before he began. "I, Erik Laramie," he began, watching Annie's eyes light up as he used her family name, "take you. Antoinette Giry, as my lawfully wedded wife. From this day forward, I shall have you and hold you, love you and cherish you, and adore you with every fiber of my being. I shall stand by your side in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, in good times and in bad." Then, cupping her cheek in his hand he added in a low voice meant just for her, "I will _listen_ to you, Annie, for you are my soul's song, and I wish nothing more than to repeat its glorious refrain until that day when only death shall do us part."

Annie's eyes were glistening with tears when Erik finished his vows. The amount of love she felt for him in that moment overwhelmed her, and made it difficult for her to speak. She took a moment to just stare at this man whom she had loved with all her heart for more than half her life. This day—this moment—was the culmination of dreams they had held sacred for so long. This was the moment the world would recognize her as his, but she knew that bond had been formed so many years ago. It was a moment of such great importance, and yet, it was just one moment in the long life they would spend from here on out—together.

Annie was broken out of her musings as the priest cleared his throat. "Well," he said, his eyes fixed on Erik, "it was a bit unorthodox, but it will do. And now," he urged gently as he turned toward Annie, "it is your turn, Madame."

Annie took a deep breath, smiled into her beloved's eyes and began. "I, Antoinette Giry take you, Erik Laramie as my lawful husband. With you I shall stand, in sickness and in health, for richer and poorer, through joys and through sorrows, for we have already weathered so many storms, and we come through them stronger _together_. My dearest Erik, there could never come a time when I would stop loving you, for you _are_ the very beat of my heart. Loving you is like breathing to me, and yet I know, that when that day comes when I shall breath my last, our love will _still_ live on. For not even death can topple true love—it is eternal, and endures even when the lovers themselves fade."

The small church was hushed as Annie's voice grew silent, neither Erik nor the priest immediately able to speak. Finally though, duty urged the minister on. "Are there rings?" He asked, his voice trembling and strained, moved as he was by the strong emotions that he had just witnessed.

"Yes," Erik said, smiling as his eyes never left Annie's. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved the ring, and even the priest caught his breath at its splendor. "Take this ring, Annie," Erik said softly, "as a long overdue symbol of my love and fidelity. And believe me, when I tell you that its brilliance cannot compare to the joy I feel in my heart at this moment."

"Erik," Annie sobbed as she felt him slip the ring effortlessly onto her finger. "You have given me your ring. You have given me back _myself_. And yet, I have no ring for you."

"Annie," Erik shook his head, gazing at her with a deep, abiding affection that was clear to see "your love has been encircling my heart for the last twenty years. That is all I shall ever need and far more than I could hope to deserve."

"Ahem," the priest cleared his throat again, feeling slightly awkward in the presence of such obvious romance. "Yes, well, that is all then. I pronounce you husband and wife. You may now…" but the priest had no need to finish his words, for Erik immediately scooped Annie into his arms, lifting her off her feet as he pressed his lips tightly against hers. Annie tangled her fingers into his hair, and held onto him so tightly with her other arm that he was sure she would never let him go. And that was exactly as he wanted.

"I love you, Madame Laramie," Erik shuddered, when at last they came up for air.

"And I love you, Monsieur Laramie!" She giggled back, breathlessly. "Oh Erik, I love you so much!" And pulling his head once again to hers, she kissed him long and deep, as they reveled in the joy that was their new marriage.

If the priest felt awkward before, he was downright embarrassed to be witness to such an enthusiastic display of affection. Yet he was convinced that he had done the right thing United this young couple. For with a love that was obviously as strong as theirs, there could be no doubt they were not meant to be apart.

"Well," the priest began, trying to get their attention, "let me be the first to congrat…" But his voice trailed off when he realized they were still kissing. "Congrat…" He tried again, but realized it was to no avail. "Ahem!" he said loudly, gaining their reluctant attention, as they finally broke apart from their marital embrace. "Congratulations!" The priest was finally able to say. "Now," he continued, taking a piece of paper out of his breast pocket and quickly signing his name, thinking that it was best to get these two off to start their lives together, "here is your marriage certificate." Handing the sheet over to Erik, he added, with a smile, "I hope you two have a beautiful life together."

"There is no doubt in my mind that we will, Father," Erik responded, never taking his eyes off Annie. "Thank you."

"Yes, thank you, Father," Annie echoed her groom's sentiment. And then to Erik, she added, "Take me home, husband."

"With pleasure," Erik responded huskily, "my wife."

And with a final smile to the priest who had helped make their dreams come true, Erik and Annie Laramie walked out the door.

 **AN: Yay Yay Yay! They're finally married!**


	124. Chapter 124

CH 124

Erik and Annie floated more than walked back to their little cottage, pausing every now and then to steal a kiss, or to share a smile. When, finally, they stood before the front door, Erik leaned down to join their lips once more as he swept Annie up into his arms.

"Erik," Annie pulled away from his kiss with a laugh, "what are you doing?"

"Isn't it obvious, Annie?" he answered back, working the latch on the door while holding her securely against his chest. "I am carrying my bride over the threshold."

"No, Erik," Annie shook her head, and asked him gently, "please put me down.

A bit confused by her request, Erik complied, none-the-less, and lowered her carefully to the ground. "What's wrong, Annie?" he asked, once she had regained her footing.

"Nothing!" she exclaimed, a wide smile spreading over her lips as she flung her arms out to her sides and spun around in glee. "Nothing at all!" her assurance coming out as a warm chuckle.

"But," Erik shook his head confused, "then why would you not let me carry you inside?"

"Because, Erik," Annie told him, her eyes shining brightly as she grasped his hands in hers. "I am no young girl that needs to be carried to her marriage bed with little knowledge of what will happen there. I am _overjoyed_ to finally be your wife, and I want nothing more than to walk into this marriage on my own two feet—holding your hand," she added, as she entwined her fingers with his, "not only as your bride, but as your equal, _willing_ partner."

Understanding the profound meaning of Annie's words, Erik smiled as he pushed the door open, and squeezing her hand, they each put one foot over the threshold—together. Once they had stepped completely inside, Erik kicked the door shut behind them, and Annie lifted her fingers to remove the mask from his face.

"Now, dear husband," she beamed, as she set it on the entry table, "you are ready for the evening. Allow me a moment to do the same." Cupping his cheek lovingly in her hands, Annie smiled before pulling away to head toward the staircase.

"Darling," Erik said, catching her hand in his, loath to be apart from her for even the briefest of times, "you are already perfect…"

"My love," Annie interrupted, giving him another of her breathtaking smiles, "grant me this favor. I promise," she added, inclining her head and capturing his mouth for a gentle kiss, "I shall not be long—for I will miss the sweetness of your lips."  
Feeling his heart flip flop in his chest, Erik squeezed his wife's hand a final time, before releasing her from his grasp. "As I miss you already," he told her with a resigned sighed. "But I shall be waiting…"

"Not for long," she promised, as she quickly turned and ran up the stairs.

Erik released a long breath, making his way the parlor. Never in a million years had he thought he would sit in this very room again, waiting for his wife—his _wife_ —on their wedding night. Fortune certainly did have a strange sense of humor. He had hated this place—had found it an absolute affront to his masculinity—a home another man had given to the woman _he_ loved. But now, it had become their sanctuary—a safe haven from the chaos into which the Opera Garnier had descended. His dream of Annie leading a life on the stage had disintegrated before his very eyes—and yet, here, in this place, his fondest wishes would come to pass. He was a married man! Married to the only woman he could ever love—the only woman who had ever touched his heart, inhabited his soul, or stirred his passions. He had belonged only to Annie for _so_ long, and now, at long last, they finally officially belonged to each other! She was wearing his ring—and she would forevermore.

Erik had never been a religious man—in fact, he had long believed that God held a very specific hatred for him in His Almighty heart. However, in that moment of realization, Erik was struck so hard with gratitude that fell to his knees. "If you are there, God," Erik uttered a trembling whisper, his eyelids closed, his hands folding together before him, "thank you. Thank you for bringing her into my life. I know that I do not deserve her—for I am a sinful man. However, for some mysterious reason you have seen fit to give me this gift—one I will cherish and adore until the end of my days. I _will_ be a good husband to her. I will listen and care for her and protect her—but most of all, I will love her. If it is true that you know men's hearts, then you know it is impossible for me to stop. Thank you…God." He added again, fumbling with exactly what to call this being to whom he had never before spoken. "Thank you for my angel."

"Erik," he heard his name ring out, quietly, sweetly.

Opening his eyes, he gazed up to the vision of beauty that stood before him. Annie had changed out of her black gown and into a silky white shift—one he had seen her wear before, many, many years ago. The scooped neckline revealed just the hint of cleavage as the thin fabric expertly shaped the swell of her breasts, falling simply to hug the curve of her hips before the hem brushed the middle of her knees. She looked at him expectantly, and he could tell that she wanted some words…some show of approval. But Erik was having a hard time breathing, and swallowing hard, he forced his mouth to form some simple, inadequate declaration.

"You…you changed…."

"Yes," Annie smiled sheepishly, a bit of rosy color beginning to creep into her cheeks. "I have been in mourning for far too long, Erik. It is time…it is time…" she repeated, her voice trailing off as Erik's hands reached slowly to trace the line of her curves, his fingers barely brushing against her body, coming at last to rest on her hips.

"I…" Annie continued to try to explain herself, "I left a few things here—when I moved into the dormitories—knowing that there would not be much room, and expecting that we might return here when you came home. I…I know it doesn't fit in the same way," she added a bit self-consciousness entering her voice. "It's a bit tighter than it was before…"

"Annie," Erik stopped her, his voice husky and low. "It is perfect. You, my dear, beautiful, _wife_ , are perfect," he added, as he gently pulled her down to kneel before him.

Annie just looked at him, as his fingers grabbed a handful of her hair and brought it to his face. Leaning in close, he closed his eyes in bliss as he inhaled deeply, breathing in her essence. "I don't deserve such a magnificent, celestial creature," he murmured, when his glowing golden eyes gazed into hers once more. "But I love you. Oh, Annie, I love you."

"I love you too, my dearest husband," she whispered back, once again tracing his cheek with her fingertips. "And I am _yours_."

Erik cupped Annie's face in his hands as he brought his mouth to hers for a breathless kiss, feeling his insides begin to melt the moment their lips touched. He buried his fingers in her long, luxurious hair as he felt Annie's arms close around his waist, pressing him to her. The heat of their bodies mingled through the thin fabric of his shirt and her shift that still separated them. Pulling just the slightest bit away from her, Erik allowed his hands to explore her body, his palms cupping the rounded weights of her breasts, his thumbs flicking against the sensitive nubs he could feel hardening through her shift. When a soft moan, fell from Annie's mouth, Erik gently laid her back upon the rug before the fireplace, kneeling between her legs which were parted to form a welcoming cradle for her love.

Locking his eyes with hers, he slowly unbuttoned his disheveled shirt. "I am _yours_ , Annie," he murmured, "as imperfect as I am."

Annie reached up to brush the no longer necessary fabric off his back. "You _are_ perfect, Erik," she whispered back, leaning up to pepper his bare chest with soft kisses. "Perfect in every way for me. My greatest treasure."

Groaning, he closed his eyes as he told her, "You are God's own gift to me, Annie." Erik lowered his body to be flush with hers, tenderly kissing her, treasuring her with his touch, worshipping her with his lips. Annie raked her arms slowly down his back, reveling in his warm skin. Bringing her hands briefly between them, she undid the fastenings on Erik's trousers, eagerly pushing them away while allowing her hands to rest on his rounded buttocks. Squeezing the firm flesh, she pulled him even closer to her.

"Annie," Erik sighed, as his hips rolled gently forward, pressing his ready manhood against her. "You know exactly how to touch me."

"I love touching you, Erik," She whispered back, taking pleasure in running her palms forward a bit to explore the hollow of his hips before once again running them up his back. She took note of every ripple of muscle, every line of raised flesh that was evidence of past harms she would spend the rest of her days erasing with pleasure. "And I plan to touch you as much as I can for the rest of our lives together."

"My God," he murmured, his hands tangling in her hair, "do you know how many nights were filled with dreams of you doing just this? Drowning me with your kisses— _branding_ me with your searing touch—only to wake and find that you were gone?"

"Never again, Erik," Annie murmured, as she kissed him hard on the lips, while her hands continued their journey along his body. "You will never again wake to find me gone. I will forever be right where I belong—in your arms."

"They have ached so long to hold you," he murmured, squeezing her tightly against him, "my fingers have coveted the feel of your silken skin," Erik moaned, as he ran his hands to the hem of her shift, lifting his weight temporarily from her body so that he could pull the flimsy barrier over her head. "…My flesh _languishing_ to feel you pressed against it," he added, gazing at her bare form hungrily.

"Mmmmmm," Annie only sighed in response, as Erik lowered his mouth to the fleshy mounds now revealed to him. He delighted at suckling Annie's breasts, taking one and then the other nipple between his teeth. Annie writhed beneath him, loving the slow way her husband was taking his time adoring her body, but at the same time, feeling her own need for him growing. It had been over ten years since he had last filled her, and the hollow ache inside her was growing unbearable.

Allowing her hands to once again stray down his back, Annie again clasped his buttocks, pulling him tightly against her as she lifted herself to him, grinding against him again and again, making her readiness plain.

The delicious friction between them soon had Erik was panting and gasping for air. When he could no longer wait to be one with her, he gazed directly into her eyes and groaned, "Annie, I love you."

"I love you too," she whispered, wrapping her legs around his waist as he slowly pushed into her, "My husband." And clinging to him, she welcomed him into her warmth.

"My wife," Erik moaned, as he felt himself enter paradise.

For a moment, they both remained perfectly still, their eyes locked, each marveling at the beauty of the other, both a bit unbelieving that this was actually happening. The moment was fleeting, however, and, gazing into each other's eyes, they began to move together in perfect rhythm, sighs and moans blending in exquisite harmony as pleasure built little by little. They reached their peaks together, Erik pouring himself into her, their worlds simultaneously shattering into a million pieces that fell about them, mingling and fitting back together as one—a universe that was more beautiful and stronger for the joining of the two.

For a while, they were both numb, clinging to each other, working to regain control of their labored breathing. Annie felt as if she were a feather, lightly flitting back and forth from some distant height on her way back down to earth. She could feel nothing but Erik's arms around her, his head resting against her shoulder. It grounded her, and at the same time made her spirit soar. She had just made love to her husband. _Her husband!_ This night all of her wishes—all her heart's deepest dreams—had finally come true.

"Annie," she heard Erik say, his voice hoarse and low, as he slowly lifted his head. "My angel."

"Forever yours," she smiled back, forcing her eyes to open, so that she could look at him. Gently, she lifted her fingers to trace the contours of his cheek, and the love he saw lodged in her eyes threatened to overwhelm him.

"How is it possible?" he asked, shaking his head ever so slightly, even as the beginnings of a smile began to pull at his lips?

"How is what possible?" Annie asked, placing tiny, gentle kisses on his cheek.

"How do you still love me so much? How was I blessed with so perfect a woman, even after the life I have led…?"

"Hush…," Annie whispered, placing her finger over his lips and bestowing more little kisses to his forehead and eyelids. "Erik, you have asked that question so many times before, and I always tell you the same thing. We are connected—we have always been—and we always _will_ be. I _love_ you—it's that simple. We were literally made one for the other. That is why it has never been right when we were apart."

"And we spent so much time apart, my love," Erik lamented, tenderly brushing a stray curl away from her eyes. "I had truly lost faith that we would ever have this. I hoped," he murmured, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead; "I dreamed," another blessed kiss grazed her cheek; "I wished it with all my heart," he confessed, velvet soft kisses dancing across her eyelids. "But I never believed it would come to be."

"Oh, my Erik," Annie whispered, running a finger lazily up and down his back, cherishing his tenderness, getting lost in his sweetness. "It has… It has."

"I know I don't deserve it," Erik added, nuzzling his head into the crook of her neck, "but I am so very grateful for it."

Annie and Erik lay there, on the very rug where they gave their innocence to one another so very long ago. They had been so young then, Annie thought, as she dreamily tangled her fingers in her husband's hair. Barely more than children. Already, however, their bond had been so strong—so pure. They had grown so much, gone through so many hardships, both together and alone. But of one thing, she was sure. Their love—their bond was ever lasting, having been forged in fire, fortified in flame. She would forever be his woman—and he would be her only man.

Erik nonchalantly lifted his head and began trailing gentle kisses along her throat. It seemed so peaceful, so natural to lay together with him like this, touching, kissing, making love, and Annie felt a moment's thrill when she realized that this easy, loving manner was theirs to keep—for the rest of their lives.

"Husband," Annie purred when she felt Erik's manhood beginning to grow once again against her leg.

"Yes, my wife?" Erik sighed, loving that he could use that word now, a word he had held sacred for so long.

"Take me to bed."

And overcome with a sudden rush of happiness, Erik rose to his feet, gathered his bride into his arms, and did exactly that.

 **AN: and you can only imagine what they did there...**


	125. Chapter 125

CH 125

Light streamed in through the curtains of the bedroom window, as Erik glanced over at the magnificent woman curled up beside him, her glorious mane of raven waves splayed out across his chest, her eyes closed in slumber. It was no surprise that she was still sleeping, as rest had been fleeting during the night, drifting between them in brief, ephemeral interludes—valleys of satiety nestled among dizzying peaks of passion. And as Erik placed a gentle kiss upon the top of her head, he marveled yet again that after so many years Annie was finally his wife. It was incredible—miraculous—the fulfillment of a dream. Annie would be by his side forever, and he yearned for nothing more than for their life to continue always as it had this night—he and his bride, alone together out of time, with nothing and no one to come between them. They had waited so long for this bliss, and he never wanted this magical moment it to end.

He fantasized, briefly, about whisking Annie away from here and stealing off to their sylvan cave. There, they could live their lives however they wished—washing beneath their waterfall, resting at the end of the day beneath a blanket of stars, making love while cradled in nature's sweet embrace. Music and laughter would echo once again amid sheltering stone walls, and every day he would pick a fresh red rose to adorn his miraculous wife's glorious hair. They could forever be free, living, loving—the Masked Musician and the Wild Dancing Rose—the life they should have had if Paris had never happened.

But Paris _had_ happened, and that was why, after adoring his wife quietly for a few silent moments more, he gently called her name.

"Annie," he whispered, his voice full of golden warmth as he pressed another tender kiss against her temple. "Annie, my darling."

"Mmmmm?" Annie murmured as she snuggled even more closely into his chest. Then, as if just remembering something, she quickly lifted her head, smiling lazily when she saw him looking back at her. "Erik…" she sighed sweetly.

"Good morning, my love," he greeted her, his voice rich with adoration as he gently kissed her lips.

"It _is_ true," Annie giggled, when he pulled back from their kiss. "I thought I was in the middle of the most wonderful dream, and I never wanted to wake up."

"'Tis no dream, dear wife," Erik assured her, tightening his arm around her back and pulling her in even closer. "We are here—together—and we are…"

"Married," she interjected, beaming up at him.

"Married," Erik nodded. "And last night," he added in a husky whisper, trailing a finger along her cheekbone, "was the happiest night of my entire life. But Annie, we have to go to Meg."

Erik felt Annie immediately tense in his arms. "Meg," she exclaimed. "Of course—they must be so worried."

"We will go to them immediately," Erik assured her, giving her a loving squeeze. "They will not worry much longer."

"Erik," Annie told him, a worried look on her face, "Giselle knows nothing about you. She's going to be so confused!"

"Do not worry!" Erik insisted, trying hard to soothe his wife, even as anxiety began a slow build in the pit of his stomach. "We will explain everything to her—together. I'd like to think that at least Little Giry will be accepting of our joining."

"Are you joking, Erik?" Annie snickered. "Meg will be overjoyed that she can finally officially call you papa."

"Annie," Erik cupped her cheek, and made his voice very serious. "You know how much I love Meg—and you know that I will always protect her as if she were my own daughter. But I know how important it is to you to respect Giles's identity as her father and…"

"Erik," Annie gently stopped him. "Meg knows who her father is. But she also knows who she loves. She will always understand that Giles is her father, and that he was a good man who loved her very much. But _you_ are the one she chooses to call papa."

"It is a blessing," Erik whispered, closing his eyes to try and control the emotions raging through his chest.

"Well, come on, Erik," Annie said, jumping out of bed, excited now. "We will have to hire a carriage," she told him, taking hold of his hand, to try to drag him out of the covers. "There's no other way to get to the estate."

But when Erik laid eyes on her naked body as she stood before him, a jolt of desire surged through him—and the immediate manner in which his body responded told him he was not ready to leave just yet. With a firm yank on her arm, he pulled Annie back to the bed, causing her to land on top of him with a yelp of laughter.

"Erik?" she giggled. "What are you doing?"

"I am begging my wife to come to bed one more time before we go," Erik told her plainly, pushing his hips upward so that she could plainly feel his need for her beneath the thin sheet that separated them.

"Oh dear husband," Annie purred, grinding against him through the material, causing him to suck in a harsh breath. "There is no need to beg." And as Annie lowered her head to kiss him, while simultaneously squirming beneath the covers, for the moment, the honeymoon continued.

* * *

Erik and Annie dressed hurriedly, after their little morning interlude, and hand in hand, hurried along their way. Fear that the commotion in Paris had not yet died down, however, caused them to travel in the opposite direction, to the neighboring town of Creteil. Their plan was to hire a driver to take them to the estate, however, as they approached the market square, it became apparent that the situation at the opera house had grown even more complicated.

 _Murder and Mayhem at the Garnier_ screamed from the front page of the large stack of papers at the neighborhood newsstand. _Suspects on the loose._

Annie caught Erik's eye at the sight of the damning words. _Suspects?_

Erik fished a coin out of his pocket and, pulling the brim of his fedora lower on his face, paid the young peddler for a copy of the publication. He tucked it neatly under his arm, and with his other hand gently on Annie's back, he guided her on their way, careful to remain calm and blend into the crowd. When they had walked a reasonable distance, however, they ducked into a partially hidden alleyway. Erik quickly unfolded the paper, reading the text out loud in a quiet voice, while Annie leaned in closer to hear.

 _Tenor Ubaldo Piangi died at the Palais Garnier last night when the auditorium's grand chandelier came crashing down from the ceiling, landing on him during the debut performance of their latest opera. In a note found next to the wreckage of the enormous light fixture, the mysterious O.G. claimed responsibility for the disaster. This was not the first time O.G.—a masked madman who pretended to be the resident "opera ghost"—had caused trouble at the opera house, having been a nuisance around the Garnier for years. Here-to-fore, he had only initiated ultimately harmless—but irritating—pranks. Immediately following Signor Piangi's death, however, he also abducted the lead soprano, Christine Dáae—whom he later let go. Dáae and her fiancé, the Vicomté Raoul de Chagny, led officers and opera house officials to a previously unknown underground lair in which the ghost had apparently been residing, but he was not found. Gendarme are continuing their search for O.G. as well as ballet mistress Antoinette Giry. Madame Giry was a long-time employee of the opera house, but most recently was linked to the ghost as his messenger. According to the Vicomté and Miss Dáae, Madame Giry appeared in O.G.'s lair last night, calling O.G. by the name of Erik, and was pivotal in convincing him to let them go. Madame Giry has since disappeared, along with her eleven-year-old daughter, Meg. Gendarme would like to speak to both of them in relation to this case._

 _Last night's investigation also unearthed the body of former stagehand Josef Buquet, whom gendarme found lying dead in an alleyway outside the opera house. Buquet had gone missing from his post many weeks prior, and had been feared dead, but officials say he appears to have died only last night, bleeding out from a slashed throat. A bloody kitchen knife, presumed to be the murder weapon, was also recovered at the scene. No one at the Garnier was aware that Buquet had returned to the opera house, but there is suspicion that his death is related to the fallen chandelier._

For a moment, they were both dead silent, frozen as they absorbed the newspaper's account previous night's evets. The report was factual, and yet, there was so much that wasn't there—so much that the investigators might never know.

Erik was the first to break the silence. "Well, if by related," he fumed, "they mean that the bastard cut the ropes and then wrote a note framing _me_ , I would say they are right…"

"Erik," Annie said, shaking her head, her voice trembling, as her eyes continued to stare at the damning words on the page. "We can't let them find us. They have already decided that you are responsible for Piangi's death—and…" she paused, closing her eyes against the vivid images now swirling in her head. The horrors of the previous night had been overshadowed by the personal joy of finally marrying the man she loved. However, Yusef's wicked deeds now returned to her mind full force, coupled with the sticky heat of his blood spilling out upon her hands as she brutally slashed his throat. "And…" she continued, her voice growing more panicked as she forced out her words. "They _know_ I am a murderer."

"Annie," Erik said, letting go of the paper and putting his hands on her shoulders to try to steady her. "You are not a murderer. He was a fiend. He had already hurt so many people—he tried to hurt Meg. You defended yourself and the ones that you love…"

"I killed him, Erik," Annie insisted, her eyes wide with horror, her entire body shaking. "I _killed_ him. My name will be forever linked with his murder."

It killed Erik to look upon Annie so terrified. She had killed, yes, but in self-defense, and in so doing, she had done the world a service—ridding it of a vile, disgusting, vermin. A miscreant that she never would have even known…if it hadn't been for him.

Erik felt the familiar wave of self-hatred roiling in his gut. Once again, her connection with him had created turmoil and distress. Once more, blood had tainted their relationship. He had dragged her into a world of which she never would have been a part if it hadn't been for her connection with him. She had suffered so _much_ pain she never would have had to suffer if it hadn't been for him. How could his continued presence in her life bring her _anything_ but struggle? If he loved her, wouldn't it be kinder of him to let her go?

No! Erik took in a deep breath and fought the instinct to withdraw and blame himself for every tragic even that took place in their lives. Erik knew, better than most, that terrible, awful things happened in life. But if there was one thing Annie had taught him, it was that they were better—they were stronger—when they faced those things together. The last thing she needed was for him to leave her again, in some ill-advised effort to save her. Right now, she needed him to stand with her, supporting her and holding her up when she felt ready to crumble. And that was exactly what he was going to do—for the rest of their lives.

"Annie," Erik told her calmly. "Your name is not linked with murder. They never mention you in conjunction with Buquet's death. In fact, _your_ name is not mentioned in the article at all. Antoinette Giry's may be, but that is no longer you," he reminded her with a gentle smile. "Madame Giry is who you _were_. But Annie Laramie is who you _are_ —a beautiful woman of great compassion, remarkable strength and unmatched bravery when it comes to defending the ones she loves. A woman I am blessed to call _my_ _wife_. You killed Yusef, Annie," Erik continued, "and believe me, I know the guilt you are feeling. But you did not act out of malice. You killed him out of self-defense—out of love for Meg and for me. You are not a cold-blooded murderer, my love, but a fierce protector—a stalwart defender. And exactly the woman I am proud to be married to."

Annie felt Erik's arms around her before she even realized she had collapsed into them. "I will be with you, Annie," she heard him promise her, while stroking her hair and placing firm kisses on the top of her head. "We will get through this together." _Together…_ Annie thought, as she felt the tension and the fear slowly ebb from her body. She was so grateful, in that moment, that Erik was there—his strong arms holding her, his brave words comforting her soul. Erik was what she needed—what she had always needed—to feel safe. With him, she knew she could face anything.

Pulling back, Annie took a deep breath and whispered, "We can never go back, Erik. We can never return to Paris."

"We don't need Paris, Annie," Erik nodded, once again rubbing his wife's arms, hoping to soothe her worries. "We will go, now, to Meg—far away from the city."

"But that's not far enough," Annie interjected.

"Then we will take her and go farther," Erik insisted. "I have traveled the world, Annie. There are places we can go where we will never be found."

"Giselle and Alain," Annie insisted. "They _have_ to come too. The managers at the opera house connect them with me. They would not be safe in Paris either."

"Then we shall bring them," Erik swore, though he was not entirely comfortable with the idea, having never met Giselle personally. If it was what Annie needed, however, he would make it happen. Anything… _anything_ to make his wife happy. "Whatever you wish shall be done, Madame Laramie," Erik promised, not able to resist calling her by her new moniker.

Annie threw her arms around Erik's neck and pulled him in tightly. "I love you, Erik," she whispered in his ear, so grateful to finally be able to call him her husband. "I love you so much, words can hardly express it."

"We have the rest of our lives— _together_ —to express it in so many wonderful ways…" Erik vowed, hugging her back. "But now, we have to get to our little girl."

* * *

Annie handled the hiring of the rental coach, after first running into the local haberdashery and purchasing a thick black scarf. She explained to the driver that Erik was her infirm elderly father, who wished to escape to their country estate. The polluted city air bothered his fragile lungs, she'd said, which was why his mouth and nose were covered with the scarf even in the heat of summer. Erik played his part by stooping low and coughing a bit as he mounted the carriage, and soon they were off to the Giry country estate.

"I see that I have graduated from being your brother to your father," Erik joked once they were secured behind closed doors. "I suppose that means you are bound to obey me now?"

Annie only rolled her eyes at that suggestion, muttering, "I don't recall making _that_ vow!"

"Don't be cheeky little girl," Erik continued to tease, "or I will have to discipline you later!"

" _Behave_ , papa!" Annie scolded and turned to stare out the window of the coach, while allowing her fingers to close around his hand as it rested next to her on the seat. Watching as the hustle and bustle of city life gave way to the lush, pastoral country sides of France, she added, "Besides, you know I am not so very little!" Smiling, as she felt his hand squeeze hers, she allowed her thoughts to wander.

She recalled the very first time she had come this way, riding in tandem with Giles upon his beloved Viggó. That weekend had been a turning point for their marriage—the moment when honesty tore through her reserve, and she allowed herself to truly open up to Giles—laying plain her warring emotions. Now, as she felt Erik's fingers tightly clasped around her own, she knew this trip to the country estate would be a turning point as well—one from which they would never be able to look back. She only hoped that Meg would understand, and that Giselle and Alain would forgive her for tearing them away from the only life they had ever known.

Annie was careful to continue the ruse once they came to a stop, making a show of carefully helping Erik out of the carriage. He was almost at the bottom step when she heard the sound of a door being flung open behind her. Turning her head, she saw her daughter barreling towards them, Alain only a short distance behind.

"Mother!" Meg cried, joy and relief clear in her voice as she threw her arms around Annie. "We were so worried. And you did as you promised! See Alain," she added, turning to look at her friend, who had caught up to them. "I told you she would bring E…"

"Marguerite," Annie interrupted quickly, using her full name as a warning, "your grandpapa is not feeling well. Why don't you and Alain take him inside."

Meg looked in confusion from her mother back to her friend, not sure how to react, but at that moment, Erik placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. "Yes, dearest _little_ granddaughter," he whispered in his unmistakable voice like freshly spun silk, "take me inside, for I would like to rest."

"A…a…alright," Meg nodded, going along with the ruse as she held her arm out for Erik to grasp. With Alain walking on his other side, they headed slowly toward the house as Annie paid the driver and sent him on his way.

Giselle stood at the front door, a look of complete bewilderment on her face, as she watched the children usher a tall, hunched figure, cloaked in black, toward the house. Alain only gave her a shrug as they continued past, with Meg simply flashing an sheepish smile.

"Giselle," Annie began as she approached her friend, "I can explain."

"You'd better, Antoinette!" Giselle demanded, even as she threw her arms around her dear friend and greeted her with a warm hug. "I have no idea what is going on here. But I am so glad to see that you are safe."

"Perfectly safe," Annie hugged her back with equal warmth. "And I'm glad to see you too."

"But who," Giselle asked, releasing her friend after a moment and turning toward the front parlor where the dark figure stood, flanked by the children, appearing much taller now that he was no longer stooped over, "is this?"

"This," Annie said, by way of introduction, "is Erik."

Erik slowly unwrapped the scarf from around his face, revealing the new white mask that Annie had sewn for him, causing Giselle's hands to fly to her face in surprise. Though she had never seen the figure in front of her before this night, his appearance had been described so many times around the opera house, that she immediately recognized him for who he really was. "The Opera Ghost!" she gasped.

"At your service, Mademoiselle," Erik removed his hat from his head, and placing it by his chest, bowed awkwardly in greeting.

"Giselle," Annie sighed, looking from her friend to Erik, and back again, "we have a lot to talk about."

* * *

And so, after making a pot of tea, Annie and Erik sat down to fill Giselle in on everything, condensing their twenty-year history into about an hour's worth of conversation. Alain had already heard bits and pieces of the story from Meg in her frenzied state on the carriage ride to the estate—but he sat there next to her, riveted the whole time. Erik was the only one who seemed to notice when the young boy took Little Giry's hand at the mention of their wedding, but he kept his silence, noting that he would have to make certain the boy's obvious affections for Meg did not get out of control.

At the conclusion of their tale, Annie loosed a deep breath. "Do you see why we can never go back to Paris?"

"I do," Giselle said, quietly nodding her head.

"Do you hate me, Giselle?" Annie asked, bracing herself for her friend's response.

"Hate you?" Giselle asked, surprised. "How can I hate you? You and Meg are the only family Alain and I have. I could never hate you—and I will stand by you, wherever you go."

Tears of gratitude forming in her eyes, Annie nodded her thanks, while looking toward her daughter. "And what of you, dear daughter? Will I ever gain your forgiveness for marrying Erik without you present?"

"I will admit," Meg answered, slight disappointment visible in her eyes, "that I wish I could have been there to see it."

"Oh, it's probably best you weren't," Erik interjected, recalling how absolutely boorish he had been toward the minister.

"But," she continued, her hand still firmly clasped in Alain's, "I am glad you are finally happy mother. I know Father would have wanted that."

"Yes," Annie nodded. "He did."

"And I can officially call _you_ Papa," she said letting go of Alain's hand at last to run into Erik's waiting arms.

"Not that it ever stopped you before, Little Giry!" Erik said mirthfully, wrapping his arms around her in a big bear hug.

"Hey!" she giggled. "I am not so…"

"…very little," Erik interjected with a laugh. "Yes, I know…I know, my dear. I have been hearing that phrase for years!" he told her, glancing over at Annie and giving her a wink. "I want you to know, though, Meg," he told her soberly after a moment, holding her a little out of his embrace, so that he could look in her eyes, "that I have _always_ thought of you as a daughter. And though I am not your biological father, I love you and I will be there for you in every way that you ever need, including _fiercely_ protecting you from _all_ who might ever hurt you, my darling!" he promised pointedly, hoping that her young friend would get the point. " _Never_ forget that."

"I never will, Papa," she swore, hugging him tightly, and making his heart soar.

"But we do not have much time," Annie said, reluctantly interrupting the moment. "We must continue on our way—if we stay here, the Parisian authorities will eventually find out about this place. We cannot let them find us."

"Where will we go?" Giselle asked.

"I have a place in mind," Erik answered, releasing Meg from his embrace. "A place far away, where we will be safe. A place where I was once told I would always have a home. And now that I have you, Annie," Erik added, reaching over and giving his wife's hand a squeeze, "it may truly feel like home."

"Persia," Annie asked, looking at her husband a little trepidation hiding behind her smile.

"Persia," Erik nodded,

"Ooooo, Exotic!" Meg squealed excitedly. "When do we leave?"

"Just as soon as we can pack enough supplies for the journey," Annie responded.

"Come on, Alain," Meg excitedly jumped up, grabbing her friend's hand and pulling him along as she ran out of the room. "We have to pack."

"I don't have anything to pack," Alain was heard saying as the two friends disappeared. "We just got her last night…"

"We'll find stuff to pack," she assured him, as their voices trailed off into the distance.

Shaking her head, Annie said, "I should probably go and see what I can take from the kitchens… Erik," she added, as she rose from the settee, "can you check the carriage and make sure it is ready for the journey?"

"Of course," Erik responded, rising as well.

"Excuse me," Giselle interrupted him, before he could leave.

"Yes?" Erik asked awkwardly, turning toward his wife's long-time friend.

"So," she began, "you have been the opera ghost all these years?"

"Yes," Erik admitted, embarrassed, "I have."

"And you are the one who arranged things all those years ago so that we would walk in on Philippe and Babette?" Giselle questioned.

"Um…" Erik coughed, feeling decidedly uncomfortable as his past deeds were brought to surface. "Yes."

"You broke my heart that day," she told him, standing and walking a little closer, to look him in the eye.

"Mademoiselle," Erik said, his throat raspy from his embarrassment. "I am very sorry…"

"Thank you," she continued with a smile, placing a hand on his arm.

"I…" Erik shook his head in confusion, "I don't understand…"

"I was blind to Philippe's faults. I…believed he loved me. But he left me immediately that night—after the embarrassing incident. I…I never told anyone this, but when I later found out I was…with child…, I wrote him a letter, explaining that it was his babe. He…wrote me back, stating that he never loved me—that he was just passing the time. He swore that if I ever tried to claim him as the father, his family would take my child from me and raise it the right way—tossing me into an insane asylum where I would never see the baby again. They were nobility—I had no doubt that they would do it.

"Alain and I have been fine without him, thanks in great part to Antoinette and her late husband Giles. But I would also like to thank you—for opening my eyes to Philippe's misdeeds, albeit in a mortifyingly heartbreaking way. It was better that I got away from him as soon as I possibly could—before his family could have tried to lay any claim on the baby. So…thank you…Erik," she finished, using his name with a smile before turning to join Annie in the kitchen.

"You're… welcome…" Erik called after her. Alone, Erik sighed as he ran his fingers through his hair, and repeated once again under his breath, "you're welcome." It took Erik a moment to process Giselle's words. It had been the opera ghost's first prank—his initial attempt at manipulating the managers and creating a desired outcome at the Palais Garnier. And he had orchestrated the entire thing for completely selfish reasons—to destroy Babette's reputation as revenge for her treatment of his Annie. He'd had no idea the repercussions he would set into motion that night, but apparently not all of them had been bad.

Regardless, the time had finally come to put the Opera Ghost to bed. It was time for him to be a husband to Annie and a step-father to Meg. The phantom was no longer needed. From this point forward, Erik only needed to be a man.

Breathing deeply, and feeling renewed as the air filled his lungs, Erik walked toward the door to do Annie's bidding and check on the carriage. The time had come for a new beginning.

 **AN: And here, dear readers, is where we must leave Erik and Annie to start their new lives together. But fear not, we will get a chance to peek in at them in the epilogue yet to come! Thank you so much for sticking with me through this long, long tale. It has truly been an incredible journey!**


	126. Chapter 126

**AN: Thank you, dear readers, for, for sticking with me during this journey! It has been a long road! I hope you enjoy this epilogue-this very LONG epilogue, ha ha-where we get to see a last glimpse into our beloved characters' lives. Enjoy!**

Epilogue:

"I just can't believe he's leaving, Mother!" the curly haired teen exclaimed, as she flounced down onto her bed. "Alain is _leaving_ ," she added, her voice muffled by her pillow, which was currently being soaked in her tears, "and I don't know how I'll survive!"

"Oh, Meg," Annie said softly, as she closed the bedroom door and sat down on the edge of the bed. "I know how you feel. But Darling," she pleaded, reaching out to rub her daughter's back, "try to think of this as a good thing…"

Meg turned violently onto her side to fix her mother with a poisonous glare. "How can it possibly be a good thing that Alain is leaving me tomorrow?"

"Meg, he is not leaving _you_ ," Annie reminded her, her words ringing somewhat hollow, even to _her_ ears. "He is leaving for university. He is going to school, Meg."

"Either way," Meg responded, turning her head back into her pillow as the sobs overtook her once more, "he will still be gone! An ocean away…And it's all Papa's fault!" Meg pounded her fists against her mattress at the final declaration, as her tears continued to fall.

"Darling," Annie once again tried to make her daughter see reason, "you shouldn't be angry with Papa. He has very generously offered to pay for Alain's schooling."

"All the way in America!" Meg exclaimed, only making her weep harder as she once again acknowledged the distance that would be between them.

"He's giving Alain a great gift!" Annie pleaded with her to understand, "Not many can afford such an excellent education."

"Mother!" Meg turned once again, leaping out of bed in her outrage at her stepfather's actions. "You know the only reason that Papa is paying for Alain to go to school in America is because of my feelings for him! He says I am too young to be in love!"

"Well, Meg," Annie began, already knowing her argument would go nowhere, "you and Alain _are_ both very young…"

"I am fifteen, Mother!" Meg exclaimed. "Alain is eighteen! You and Papa fell in love when you were twelve, and you love each other still! You cannot tell me that I am too young to know that I want to be with him forever."

"Erik and I are hardly an example of the ideal relationship," Annie huffed. "We've faced so much hardship…"

"Because of separation!" Meg argued, tossing her hands up in the air. "You've told me so many times that the root of all your problems with Papa was the time you two spent apart!"

"Oh, Meg, this is different!" Annie told her. "Alain will not be going off to some dangerous country where lines of communication will be cut off by an insane ruler! He is going to America—studying journalism so that he might someday find gainful employment—something that will greatly benefit you both, if, in fact," Annie added, feeling her heart clench a little at the thought of her little girl growing up, "he shares your feelings and you two _do_ wish to be together forever."

"We do," Meg insisted simply, though she had never heard Alain say the words. "But I do not see why he needs to go to _America_ to get an education just to get a job at a newspaper! Alain is already an excellent writer! He writes stories all the time. He could try to get those published…"

"Meg," Annie countered, "a few stories do not a career make! Even if he did manage to get them published—and there is no guarantee of that!—writing stories is hardly steady employment. Not the type of job that would allow him to provide for a family…"

"I wouldn't _need_ a fancy life, Mother!" Meg protested. "I would be happy living in a cave, as long as I was with Alain!"

Annie was speechless for a moment. Many say that a person's eyes were the mirror of their soul, but in her case, the mirror was her daughter. Arguing with Meg was like quibbling with a younger version of herself. Oh, Meg still had the golden curls and the crystal blue eyes that her father, Giles Giry, had bestowed upon her. But her headstrong spirit, her stubbornness, and her maddening persistence—those were all Annie's fault! Many times, while watching Meg grow up, Annie recognized the familiar fire in her daughter's soul, and she had finally come to realize how badly it burned. Meg Giry was impossible!

"Meg!" Annie scolded, her patience finally wearing a bit thin. "I am sorry Erik has cursed Alain with a prestigious education. It was truly unthinkable of him to bequeath him with such a burden! And for free, even! And how foolish of Alain to accept the offer, when instead of a comfortable home here in Monaco, he could have the good fortune of sleeping on the ground, in a cave in the forest!" And even as she said her final words, secretly, Annie knew that life in a cave would not have seemed so bad to her either, as long as she was with Erik.

"Mother," Meg whined, crumbling onto her bed, her anger finally spent, ushering back the tears, "I am just going to miss him so much!"

"I know, my darling," Annie soothed, taking her daughter into her arms, and enfolding her in a warm hug. "You _will_ miss him," she whispered, comfortingly, stroking her fingers through her daughter's curls. "And he will miss you terribly. But you can write… and there will be visits… and _we_ will be here for you—you _know_ Papa and I understand very well what you will be going through. We will hold when you feel like crying, and we will listen when you feel like talking, and then when Alain's school years are done, he _will_ come home to you! Papa and I and Giselle will see to it—I promise."

"I know, Mother," Meg nodded, sniffling a bit, using the sleeve of her gown to dry her tears.

"Meg," Annie said, cupping her palm against her daughter's cheek, "It's late. You should try to get some rest. We have an early morning tomorrow…" she reluctantly added.

"Yes," Meg said, nodding, trying her best to hold back tears as she recalled the reason for such an early start, "we do."

"You don't want to have red, puffy eyes as we say bid Alain a safe journey, do you?"  
"No, mother," Meg shook her head sadly. "I want to look my best if I am to be forced to say goodbye…" she added, her voice breaking off at the end, tears once again threatening to overwhelm.

"Not goodbye, Meg," Annie reminded her, her heart breaking for her daughter's pain. "But Godspeed, and a quick return!"

"Not quick enough!" Meg sulked, wrapping her arms around her mother once again, to give her another goodnight hug.

* * *

Annie was full ready to lay into Erik, demanding to know why he couldn't have sent Alain to a school a little closer to home, but as she stormed to their bedroom, she noticed her husband in her son's room, tenderly rocking the boy back to sleep.

"It is alright, dear Jérémé," Erik whispered, as he moved back and forth in the old, creaky rocking chair, all the doors and drawers in the young child's room having been flung open. "There are no monsters in the closet—or in the drawers—and certainly not under your bed. And even if there were," he purred softly, "they would all be afraid of papa anyway—for he is the mighty phantom, who will stop at nothing to protect you!"

Annie felt her irritation at her husband melt away, as she realized that only he could ever make the concept of a ghost comforting to a child. And oh, how he adored this child—taking every opportunity to care for him and show him how much he was loved. Erik sang to him, played with him, had started teaching him piano when he had barely turned one! She would never forget the way he fell to his knees when she told him that, miraculously, she was expecting.

 _"_ _Is it true, Annie?" he had asked, both hands on her abdomen, scrutinizing her so closely, as if he would be able to somehow see the child nestled safely in her womb. "There is a babe?"_

 _"_ _Yes, Erik," Annie smiled. "Faribah's own physician confirmed it this morning. I am with child. We can expect a baby in the fall."_

 _Erik made no response, choosing only to wrap her in his arms and lay his head against her belly. When Annie noticed his back shaking, however, she realized her husband was crying._

 _"_ _Erik," she said, sliding down to kneel before him, stroking his hair as he buried his head in her shoulder. "Erik…I thought you would be happy."_

 _"_ _Happy?" Erik asked, at long last looking at her, so she could read the sincerity—and the terror—lodged in his eyes. "I am overjoyed, Annie, that our love has created a life. But what if…what if…"_

 _"_ _Erik, no," Annie told him gently, putting her finger to his lips. "Do not allow yourself to think like that. What happened once will not happen again. This child is different—he is stronger. I could_ feel _him, Erik. I knew he was there even before the doctor's words. This child will thrive."_

 _"_ _But how can you know, Annie?" Erik asked again, plaintively. "And what if you're wrong? What if we lose him? I cannot lose another child, Annie. I cannot lose you…"_

 _"_ _Erik!" Annie took him tightly into her arms again. "You are not going to lose anyone—I promise. Especially not me! I am your wife, Erik. You are stuck with me—forever!" she added, in an effort to lighten the moment._

 _"_ _And for that," Erik said, trying his best to calm his emotions, "I am truly blessed."_

 _"_ _As I am blessed, Erik," she swore, "for loving you. And whatever the future brings, we will face it together."_

 _Taking a deep breath, and looking at his wife a moment more in absolute adoration, Erik once again turned his attention toward her midsection. "I will love him, Annie," he swore. "I will love him, and protect him, and give him everything he will ever need. Our child will want for nothing, Annie. It is my solemn vow."_

 _"_ _I know Erik," Annie nodded, "I never doubted that. You will be a wonderful father to our baby, Erik."_

 _"_ _As you will be a wonderful mother, my beautiful, beloved wife…"_

"He is sleeping, my darling," Erik said, breaking her out of her reverie as he met her at the doorway. "Shall we go to our room?"

"Yes, let's Erik," Annie said, taking his hand and falling into step with her husband.

"How is Meg?" he asked, concerned that his step daughter was taking her friend's impending departure rather hard.

"You truly couldn't find a school a little closer, Erik?" Annie asked admitting that Meg was distraught. "Did you really have to send Alain to America!"

"Yale is an excellent University, Annie!" Erik defended, opening the door to their room and letting Annie enter first.

"Of course it is, Erik," his wife agreed as he closed the door behind them. "But it is just so far away!"

"One of the many reasons it is so excellent!" Erik returned, a satisfied grin spreading across his face.

"Our daughter is heart-broken!" Annie scolded, her hands on her hips. "She grew up with Alain! He has always been a part of her life!"

"That is why this separation is so vitally important," Erik explained, trying to make her see reason. "If Alain is all she's ever known, how can she know that he is all she'll ever want? She is only 15, Annie. She should not believe herself to be in love with that boy simply because he is the _only_ boy she has ever known!"

"Is that why you fell in love with me?" Annie asked, eyebrow raised as she challenged her husband's thinking.

"What?" Erik asked. "No! Annie, you and I had a _bond_ from the moment we first saw each other—a bond that could never be broken…"

"Very much like the bond between Meg and Alain!"

"Ridiculous!" Erik huffed, turning away from his wife and pulling back the covers on the bed.

"Erik," Annie persisted, "how many other girls did you know before deciding I was the only one for you?"

"Well, I…" Erik floundered… "I… I knew Yasmin!" he finally blurted, even though he had been sure of his feelings for Annie long before meeting the young Persian slave girl.

"Ah yes…" Annie nodded. "The Princess of Persia—who absolutely despised me for the longest time!"

"It wasn't _that_ long…" Erik countered.

"It was long enough," Annie returned. "There I was, a stranger in a strange land, having just fled my former life in Paris, and this woman—this princess—whose family had taken me in—to whom I owed such gratitude—absolutely _hated_ me. Because you kissed her once…"

"Oh Annie," Erik rolled his eyes, still embarrassed by what he considered a grave moment of weakness. "It was _not_ because I kissed her! Her cold treatment was just a big misunderstanding. She only mistrusted you because she thought you were to blame for my years of unhappiness. She thought your marrying Giles was an act of infidelity when truly, it would never have happened if I hadn't left Paris in the first place…" Erik's voice trailed off as he heard his own words, realizing that perhaps he was not helping his argument.

"Hmmmm…" Annie nodded, "Really? It was the _separation_ that was the root of all our problems, huh?"

"Annie," Erik sighed, sitting down on the bed, and inviting his wife to join him. Once she had grudgingly taken a seat next to him, Erik continued, "I have already conceded, time and again, that my foolish need to come to Monaco in the first place was the reason for all of our troubles. But Meg is just a _child_. And Alain—he is a lad of eighteen! He's an _adult_ , Annie, and his feelings for Meg are…well, frankly… they scare me!"

"Erik," Annie asked, her eyes narrowed in confusion, "why do they scare you? Alain absolutely adores Meg. He has for the longest time."

"Don't you think I know that?" Erik retorted. "I have seen the way he holds her hand everywhere—they way they whisper together—the way they giggle!"

"Oh, heaven forbid they enjoy each other's company so much that they _giggle_ together!" Annie said, eyes rolled back in her head. "Have you also seen the way he listens to her when she talks—the way he encourages her dancing—the way he protected her against those boys who surrounded her that day on the street in Persia, not wishing to let her pass?"

"Annie," Erik countered, "as I recall the story, she didn't need his protection. She kicked one of them so hard in the shin that he dropped his sword, and then when she recovered said weapon and they saw how well she could wield it, they ran for their lives."

"Alright, true," Annie admitted with a chuckle at her daughter's tenacity. "But the intention was there."

"Mark my words, Annie," Erik help up a warning finger, "there are other intentions there as well. They spend every waking moment together. Trust me, it won't be long, before those waking hours are not enough—and he wishes to _extend_ their relationship into the night."

"Oh, Erik!" Annie shook her head and rolled her eyes. "You are being ridiculous! Alain would never expect that from Meg. I believe he truly loves her! And with love comes respect!"

"With love also comes desire, Annie!" Erik argued. "And you cannot tell me he does not desire her! Don't you recall, our farewell banquet in Persia?"  
"Of course I do," Annie responded, recalling, for a moment, just how tumultuous the first years of their marriage were. The flight out of Paris had been bad enough, but adjusting to Persia had been hard. While Kevah and Faribah had been instantly welcoming, Yasmin had taken quite a while to warm up to Annie and finally trust that she truly did love her husband. Things had finally turned around when they announced that they were expecting a child. The Persian Princess knew just how much the child they'd lost had meant to Erik, and seeing the worry that was so often lodged in Annie's eyes made her realize just how much her friend's wife cared for the babe she was carrying. After a long heart to heart, Yasmin and Annie had at last emerged friends, the Persian Princess having been one of the first to hold their son Jérémé in her arms.

And then, just like that, news had come that the great Charle's Garnier had grown ill and was near to dying—and they picked up their family and sailed back to Monaco—because Erik would not have been able to live with himself if he had not seen Charles at least one final time. That was how they had finally ended up living back in Monaco. Charles was overjoyed to know that the _son_ he'd once feared dead was alive and well, and had finally married the love of his life. It brought peace and joy to his final days to have Erik take over the business—which had always been his intention—with Annie and Meg working at the nearby opera house that Erik had helped build. But before they left, the royal family in Persia had thrown them a lavish farewell party, holding nothing back to honor their friends whom they would miss dearly. Meg had been dressed all in gold that night, and Annie recalled Alain commenting that even though it was night, Meg still glittered like the sun.

"He danced with her the whole evening," Erik continued his tirade, jolting Annie out of her memories, "holding her in his arms!"

"Oh, the scandal!" Annie retorted. "Were they supposed to have danced with a ten-foot pole extended between them?"

"Preferably, yes!" Erik nodded. Then, when his wife rolled her eyes and looked away, he added, "Annie, he _kissed_ her that night! On the verandah! I _saw_ it."

"I saw them too, Erik," Annie reminded him, her voice softening a bit at the sweet memory. "It was their _first_ kiss—a simple peck on the lips, and it lasted only a moment. You kissed me for a lot longer under the mistletoe that first night!" she teased, gently punching him in the arm.

"I never wanted to stop kissing you that night, Annie," Erik told her, his mood shifting as he brushed a strand of hair away from her face, recalling the first mutual kiss they had given each other. Lowering his head, to steal a quick taste of her honeyed lips, he murmured, "Even now, separating my lips from yours is quite a painful endeavor. That is why I worry, my love."

"Why?" Annie asked, dreamily, momentarily forgetting what they were arguing about. Her husband's kisses always had the effect of shutting out the entire world, causing her to focus exclusively on him.

"I have seen the way he looks at her," Erik told her, placing another tender kiss on his wife's lips. "He looks at her the way I look at you. And that is how I know he is completely, utterly, and madly in love with her. He will do anything to win her favor, and he will want to hold her close to him for the rest of his life."

"If you know he is sincere, Erik," Annie asked, still confused about his actions. "Then why must you separate them? Why are you not content to let them be together and be happy? Surely there is an excellent school Alain could attend that is closer to Monaco."

"Most assuredly, Annie," Erik admitted. "But then he would still be here—consuming all her time—and I…I…"

"You are not ready to let your Little Giry go, are you?" Annie asked, finally understanding her husband's motivations.

"No, Annie," Erik sadly shook his head. "I am not. And I hazard to guess that _you_ will not be when Jérémé's time comes either," Erik added, using their two-year-old son's name to make his point.

"Jérémé is never falling in love, Erik!" Annie insisted matter of factly.

"Oh?" Erik asked, smirking now at his ridiculous wife.

"Of course not—he's never growing up either!"

"I see…" Erik nodded, amused.

"He will forever be my cuddly little boy, and that is that!" Annie insisted.

"Come here, cuddly wife," Erik laughed, at his wife's double standard as he pulled her fully into his arms, laying her back on the bed, "and give me a kiss."

"But husband," Annie teased, batting her eye lashes, "there is no mistletoe…and we are not on a verandah…"

"Well then," he murmured huskily, lowering himself on top of her, earning him a mewl of delight, as he pressed against her with his hips, "we can do _much_ more than kiss." And as Annie sighed her consent, Erik brought his lips to hers.

* * *

Meg had counted at least a hundred sheep but it was not working. She simply could not fall asleep. But how could she be _expected_ to sleep when Alain was leaving tomorrow? Sleeping would just make the morning come faster—which was the last thing she wanted to do. If she could, she would wish it away forever—make it so that Alain never had to leave her.

She flounced over onto her side, reminding herself that she should be happy for Alain. She knew that this was truly a wonderful thing that Papa was doing for him. He was going to study journalism! He was going to see America! There would be so many new things…new experiences…new… _girls_?

"Ugh!" Meg groaned, flopping herself onto her back once again. "I hate this! I'm never going to be able to sleep!"

The light tapping sound of a rock hitting her window told her that she was not the only one.

Pulling on her dressing gown, Meg hurried out of bed. She rushed to throw open the window just as another pebble came in her direction, forcing her to jump out of the way in order to not be hit. When a horrified gasp floated up from outside, Meg gingerly peeked her head out of the window to see Alain standing there, his hand covering his mouth in mortification.

"Meg!" he called and waved, a sheepish smile spreading over his face. "You're awake!"

"Yes!" she answered, annoyance clear in her voice. "And it's a good thing I'm conscious after that rock almost hit me in the head! What are you doing out there, throwing rocks at my window?"

"I couldn't sleep," he answered simply, and at the sincere look on his face, all of Meg's irritation faded away.

"Neither could I," she admitted with a sigh.

"Come and take a walk with me, Meg," he asked sweetly. "Your company would make the night seem not so dark."

Closing her eyes against the tenderness in his voice, Meg nodded. "I'll be right down."

Alain did not have to wait for long before Meg appeared at the front door, wearing the same—now wrinkled—day dress she'd been in earlier, her hair a frizzy bird's nest atop her head. Smiling, he extended his hand to her, and without a word, she took it, not quite able to meet his eyes.

"You look lovely tonight, Meg," Alain told her, as they took their first steps toward the rocky shoreline outside their home.

"Oh Alain," Meg scoffed, still not looking in his direction, tears of frustration threatening at the corners of her eyes. "I'm a mess! I threw on the first dress I could find—which was lying in a heap on the floor—and my hair is an absolute fright, and the sea breeze is certainly not helping! What a way for you to remember me on your last night in Monaco before sailing off to America tomorrow!"

Alain stopped and turned toward her, tipping her chin up to make her look at him. "I will remember how you glow in the moonlight, Aurélie," he whispered sweetly, using the pet name he had created for her when on voyage to Persia.

Gazing up into her dear friend's beautiful blue eyes, Meg could not help but smile as she remembered how concerned they had been, on that journey, about using their real names. It was so important never reveal that they had any connection with the Paris Opera House—a fact that her mother had chided them about mercilessly since they'd been on board.

 _"_ _Remember…," Annie would coach the children, before allowing them to venture out among the other passengers on board._

 _"_ _We know, we know, mama!" Meg would sigh, rolling her eyes. "Listen more than you speak—never say too much."_

 _"_ _We understand the situation completely Madame," Alain interjected, depriving Meg the chance to dig herself into deeper trouble with her mother. "Come on, Meg," he'd say, grasping her hand and pulling her toward the door, scolding her as soon as they were out of earshot._

 _"_ _You shouldn't be so cheeky with your mother," Alain told her one day, after saving her from her mother's anger. "She is only trying to keep us safe and prevent us from taking unnecessary risks."_

 _"_ _I know," Meg admitted. "But she treats me like a little girl. I am old enough to think for myself, don't you think, Alain?"_

 _"_ _Well, I know you have a mind of your own, Meg Giry," he retorted, looking away while he rolled his eyes._

 _"_ _Alain!" Meg stopped them in their tracks, an amused smirk on her lips. When her friend turned his head to face her, she continued, "I do not think you were quite agreeing with me there!"_

 _"_ _Me disagree with you? And risk your wrath?" Alain asked, his eyes wide in feigned innocence. "Perish the thought! I know you far too well for that!"_

 _"_ _Oh yes?" Meg goaded, enjoying their teasing. "Do you also know that you yourself may have put us at risk with your little taunt? Using my full name—and outside of our private quarters!" Meg had only been joking with her friend, of course, but his generally ruddy complexion suddenly grew pale. "Alain," she asked, her mood sobering immediately. "What's wrong?"_

 _"_ _You said it yourself," he answered. "If the other passengers learn our names, we could be in trouble! Your mother not so much, since she has a new married name. But your name would definitely connect you with the opera house."_

 _"_ _Perhaps we should come up with new names for each other," Meg suggested, her eyes twinkling with the secrecy of it all. "Code names! You know—to use in public. I can name you—and you can name me!"_

 _"_ _Great idea!" Alain agreed. But then, when he realized he had no idea what name to use for his vivacious friend, he said, "You first!"_

 _"_ _Me first, huh?" Meg asked, looking her friend up and down to come up with just the right moniker. "I think…" she began slowly, raising a hand to her chin in consideration, "…I shall name you…Leroux!" she finished her sentence quickly, not able to suppress a giggle._

 _"_ _Leroux?" Alain asked, confused. "Why?"_

 _"_ _For your red hair, of course," Annie snickered, reaching out to ruffle the ginger mane atop his head. "Unless you'd rather me call you Strawberry!"_

 _Alain narrowed his eyes and huffed at her, blowing a lock of his rusty hair away from his eyes in the process. "Marguerite G…"_

 _"_ _Uh, uh, uh, Leroux!" Meg put up her finger to stop him, gloating with a grin that spread from ear to ear. "You cannot say my name!" Quickly, however, she decided to have mercy on her friend. "I don't really want to call you Leroux anyway. But how about Gaston?"_

 _"_ _Gaston?" he asked, not nearly as offended._

 _"_ _Yes, Gaston," she answered with a faraway look in her eyes. "It's such a manly name—brave, strong—the name of a protector—and you've certainly been mine! Yes," she nodded, her smile sincere, "I think it suits you perfectly."_

 _"_ _Aurélie," Alain said simply, in return._

 _"_ _Aurélie?" Meg asked, not understanding._

 _"_ _Yes," Alain nodded, a sweet smile on his lips. "You shall be Aurélie—a name that means golden—for you, Meg Giry," he said in a whisper, reaching out to fluff one of her springy yellow curls, "always shine golden, like the sun."_

"I have always quite liked that name," Meg responded, her voice a little softer than before, "dear Gaston."

Now it was Alain's turn to scoff. "Gaston! Strong man!" he snickered, shaking his head. "Not me! I'm a writer, not a fighter!"

"You've always been strong for me," Meg told him, cupping his cheek. "And I always feel safe whenever I'm with you."

Alain just smiled, not having words to express how his golden ballerina was making him feel at the moment. The adoration in her gaze made him feel as tall as a mountain—as big as the sea. But even that was not enough to convey just how much she meant to him, so eventually, he simply sighed and said, "Gaston, huh?"

"Yes," Meg nodded, taking his hand in hers once again, as they resumed their walk to the seashore. "Gaston." After a few moments, however, she added, "Unless of course, you'd rather me call you Leroux!"

"Oh, God, no!" Alain cringed, and the two friends laughed, Meg resting her head on Alain's shoulder as their continued in their path.

They were quiet for a few moments, listening to the waves crash against the sand, drinking in the salty air, until Meg finally spoke. "I am going to miss you so much when you leave for America, Alain," she quietly admitted. "I know that it is going to be terribly exciting for you. You will be learning so much— _seeing_ so much! But I will be here thinking always of you—feeling like a part of my heart is missing."

"That's the part I will be taking with me, Meg," he whispered, nuzzling his cheek against the top of her head, "as I leave a piece of mine with you, for safe keeping. You will remember to care for it, won't you? You will not forget me once I am gone…"

Meg swallowed hard against the tears that sprang to her eyes at his ridiculous words. Releasing his palm, she walked a few steps closer to the water. "Oh Alain," she huffed, wringing her skirt in her hands, "how can you worry about me forgetting you? You will be so busy at your new school, _you_ will hardly have time to even think of _me_! All those new ideas—new experiences—new…girls!" she added, in a trembling voice. "Why I am sure there will be so many sophisticated, beautiful women in America that your memories of me will pale in comparison!"

"Meg Giry pales to no one!" Alain declared, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Meg Giry shines golden, like the sun!"

The tears won, then, and Alain turned Meg to face him so that she could bury her face in his chest.

"I'm sorry, Alain," she told him as she wept, "I'm just going to miss you so much!"

"As I will miss you," he swore, wrapping his arms tightly around her, burying his face in her hair. "Did you honestly think that I could stop thinking of you for even a moment?"

"Alain," Meg sniffled, pulling away a bit to look into his eyes, "you will be surrounded by so many new experiences and new people. Maybe you will come to think that I am simply—boring."

"Meg Giry," Alain threw his head back as he guffawed at the thought. "That is one thing you could never be! Even after all these years—you never cease to fascinate me with your devious mind; to amaze me," he added quickly when he saw her eyes begin to narrow, "with your grace; to take my breath away," his voice softened as he lifted a finger to stroke her cheek, "with your unparalleled beauty. You are incredible, Meg! Excitement and fire simply radiate from you—and I am just so humbled that you see fit to share them with me."

"Oh Alain," Meg sobbed, overwhelmed by the emotion in his words, "there could never be anyone else!"

"For me either!" Alain returned. "That is why," he continued, reaching into his pocket, "I wanted to ask you to wear this."

Alain held out his closed palm to her, slowly uncurling his fingers to reveal a ring. The gold band was thin and delicate, eight curved prongs curling up at the center to enclose a luminous opal, glowing as if it contained the sun itself!

"Alain!" Meg gasped in disbelief as she stared at the opulent ring. "Where did you get this?"

"Well, unbeknownst to Erik, Meg," Alain told her, smiling proudly at her reaction, "I had been saving for my own education—putting away little bits of money here and there. I would never have been able to afford anything as fancy as Yale, but I had hoped it would be a start at paying for one of the local institutions of learning. But after Erik's incredibly generous offer, I realized I could put my money to much more important use—a ring that you could look at while we were apart to remind you of how much I love you. I chose an opal," he continued, his voice hushed, "because of its natural fire—it is the only stone I could think of that could come close to standing up to your beauty—although looking at it now, in your presence, I must admit, even _it_ pales in comparison.

Meg looked up into Alain's eyes, tears flowing freely now for far different reasons.

"So, what do you say, my beautiful Aurélie?" Alain asked sweetly. "Will you wear my ring, to remember me while I am gone?"

Meg closed her eyes and swallowed hard at the lump in her throat, before she was able to speak. "Silly Boy, I will not wear your ring to _remember_ you—for there will never be a time that I could forget!" she scolded good naturedly. "But I shall wear your ring because I love you—I love you with all my heart!" And throwing her arms around his neck, she dissolved into sobs.

Quickly shoving the ring back in his pocket for safe keeping, Alain wrapped his arms around her, lifting her into the air, and swirling her around, both of them crying and laughing at the same time. "I love you Meg," he swore as he crushed her to him. "I have always been at least half in love with you!"

"There has never been a question in my mind," Meg agreed, "that you were the one for me—my strength, my protector!"

"My love!" Alain added, finally setting her on her feet. After making certain she was steady, he knelt down before her, retrieving the ring and taking her left hand in his. "I will go to America, Meg," he told her. "I will get an education—learn all I need to learn, in order to build us a wonderful life—and then I will return to you, my sweet" he vowed, pushing his ring onto her finger, "with a matching gold band, which I will place next to this one if you agree to marry me, Meg."

"Yes! Yes," she exclaimed with glee, kneeling down to join him and taking his face in her hands. "Of course, I will marry you! I love you, Alain!"

"As I love you, Meg!" and taking her into his arms, he brought his lips to hers.

Meg felt as if she were melting by the time they ended their kiss, resting their foreheads each against the other as they caught their breath and calmed their pounding hearts. Eventually, Alain helped her to her feet as they began their walk home, hand in hand, Meg resting her head once again on his shoulder.

"How are you feeling now, Sweetheart?" Alain asked, turning his head a bit to place a gentle kiss on the top of her hair. "Better?"

"I'm still sad about your leaving," Meg answered, thoughtfully. "I'm still going to miss you dreadfully, my darling fiancé," she said, turning her head to smile up to him. "But I must admit—I'm feeling very excited!"

"Oh yes?" Alain asked. "About our future?"

"Of course, about our future!" Meg agreed. "But right now," she added, extending her hand so that she could watch Alain's beautiful gift glittering in the moonlight, "I really can't wait to show Papa the ring!"

* * *

Erik was in a foul mood.

"Isn't it beautiful, Papa?" Meg asked as they rode toward the dock, the entire family piled the carriage so that they could say goodbye to Alain as he embarked on his journey across the sea. "Look at how it shines in the sunlight!" she demanded, extending her hand to hold the ring even closer to his face—his mask not doing much to hide his growing irritation. "And Alain bought it with his own money," Meg continued, glancing over to her now blushing fiancé, and squeezing his hand in pride, "—that he was able to save, since _you_ are sending him to America and paying for his education! Thank you so much, Papa," she added, looking back at him, "for making it possible for us to marry as soon as he is done at Yale! You have made all our dreams come true!"

Erik did nothing but grunt in return, as he looked sourly out the window.

Annie snickered at her daughter's relentlessness, and made a mental note to scold her for it later. Right then, however, she turned and whispered, "Mine too!" into her husband's ear as she passed their son over to him. Taking the toddler in his arms, Erik instantly felt a little better, knowing that he had a few years, at least, before _this_ child would be as cheeky as his beloved step daughter. Giving Jérémé a kiss on the forehead before beginning to bounce him on his knee, Erik glanced over at his beloved wife and mouthed a silent, "Thank you." Oh, his beautiful Rose—she always knew exactly how he was feeling—exactly what he needed. He had gone through such agony—such madness—without her, but he knew that with her in his life, the rest of his years would be filled with love and joy—even if he did have to deal with the minor vexations Little Giry and her boy piled upon him! He still had four years before this "wedding" was to take place, however. And who knew—perhaps Alain could be convinced that he needed a _higher_ learning degree. Harvard might be a good choice for a doctoral program—or perhaps even the new university that had recently opened on America's opposite coast… Yes, Stanford might be the best choice of all!

When the time had come to see Alain off at the harbor, the young redhead was smothered in kisses by both his mother and his fiancé.

"Study hard, Alain," his mother urged, as she squeezed him tightly. "And don't forget to write!"

"Every day, Mother," Alain promised, squeezing her back with all his strength. "Every day! I promise."

"I love you, Alain!" she told him, breaking away from their embrace to look him in the eye. "You have been my life's purpose and my greatest joy! You've always made me so proud!"

When it was Meg's turn to say goodbye, tears sprang to her eyes despite her earlier jovial mood.

"Meg, Honey, you know there's no need to cry…" Alain said to her sweetly, taking her face in his hands. "I will be back before you even have time to miss me and we shall be married immediately upon my return!"

"Alain, you fool!" she sniffled, "I miss you already."

"As I miss you, my darling," he admitted. "But I promise—this separation will be but a moment in comparison to the rest of our lives together."

"I know, Alain," Meg nodded. "Unless Papa gets the idea in his head," she added, rolling her eyes, "that you need some further education before you can come home."

Alain snickered, "While I admit, your Papa might come up with such a crazy notion, it will never happen! I am already itching to get back home to you!" Bringing his lips to hers for a tender kiss, he whispered, "You are going to make such a beautiful bride."

"Ahem!" Erik cleared his throat loudly, taking a big step toward them. "They are almost done boarding. You do not want to miss your boat, child!" he said, pointedly, to Alain.

"No, Monsieur Laramie, I do not," Alain responded politely. "Thank you again, Sir. I will endeavor to do my very best, to make the absolute most of your generous gift."

"Yes, well," Erik nodded awkwardly, liking the boy despite himself, "see that you do. Now then, you two" he added, turning away and walking back over to Annie and Jérémé, to give them a few last moments of privacy, "make it quick."

"Your step father is quite a character," Alain muttered to Meg with a chuckle, as soon as they were alone. "I should write a story about him one of these days…"

"Ah yes," Meg rolled her eyes. "For who could resist the tale of the mighty Phantom of the Opera—the ghost who terrorizes opera houses and innocent ballerinas alike?"

At that moment, the ship's loud horn blasted, a signal even Alain and Meg couldn't ignore that the time had come to say farewell.  
"I'm going to miss you, Alain!" Meg cried, hugging him tightly one last time.

"Well, whenever it becomes too much to bear, just look at your ring and remember how much I am missing you—and how much I love you, my beautiful, golden ballerina! Forever!"

"Forever, my brave Gaston!" Meg returned, as she finally let him go.

The ride back to their home was much more somber, none of them really saying very much, even Erik behaving himself as he was acutely aware that both Meg and Giselle were grieving Alain's departure. When once again the family disembarked the coach, minus one of their very important members, none of them felt like doing much of anything, such had the wind been taken out of all of their sails. Deliverance from their troubles, however, came, as it often did, from the youngest member of their clan.

"Sandcastle, Meg?" she heard the small sweet voice of her little brother ask, just as she felt his little hands tug on her skirt.

"Oh Jérémé," Meg sighed, feeling heavy with her melancholy, "I don't really feel much like building sandcastles."

"Are you in the mood for moping around?" Annie asked her, wisely, "Because I hardly think that is going to make you feel any better. Alain is off on his adventure, and you are here. But make no mistake, life does go on—and I would think sandcastles would be much more fun to write about in your letters than staring at the four walls of your room."

Meg just looked at her mother and heaved a deep sigh. Reaching out, she gave her a hug. "You're right, Mother," she admitted, and then, looking over at Erik, she surprised him by pulling him into an embrace as well.

"Little Giry," Erik asked, puzzled, wrapping her arms around her, "to what do I owe this show of affection?"

"Because you are my Papa," she answered back. "And I love you—even if you do drive me crazy!" And giving him another tight squeeze, she let go and knelt down to look at her brother.

"Sandcastles, Jérémé?" she asked.

"Sandcastles!" he shouted, his golden eyes glittering now that his sister seemed to be agreeing with his plan.

"Come on," she told him, standing to her full height and gathering her skirts in her hands. "I'll race you!" And with that, she was off—running much more slowly than she was truly capable, to give her brother a fighting chance.

"Why don't you two go off and join the children while I go inside and make some sandwiches," Giselle offered. "I think a picnic on the beach would do us all a bit of good."

"What a wonderful idea, Giselle," Erik thanked her, taking his wife's hand in his. "We shall do just that."

Hand in hand Erik and Annie walked to catch up with the children, but when they came into view, Annie had to catch her breath. There it was—the scene of her dreams. Her beautiful boy with the black curly hair running on the beach to catch up with his sister, who had already dropped to the sand. His golden eyes glittered as he giggled with glee at the seagulls taking flight all around him. He was happy, Meg was happy, mostly, and Annie found that _she_ was so very happy. Especially with the knowledge that more was yet to come.

"This is it, Annie," Erik said, squeezing her hand while taking in the scene before him. "This is everything we've always wanted," he added, telling her that once again, his thoughts had strayed to the same place as hers.

"But this is not _everything_ , Erik," Annie told him with a smile.

Looking over at his wife, his eyes narrowed suspiciously, Erik asked, "Whatever do you mean, dear wife?"

Taking his hand and placing it on her abdomen, she told him, "I am pregnant, Erik."

Annie watched as Erik's confusion dissolved into disbelief and then quickly to joy. "Pregnant, Annie?" He asked, placing his other hand on her still flat tummy. "How…when…did you know?"

"I've known for a few days, Erik," Annie admitted, "but with Alain's departure coming up, I knew it was not the time to say anything."

"Oh Annie," Erik said, his eyes growing misty with tears. "I never thought I'd be so blessed—to first have Meg call me Papa, and then to have our son and now…now…" he trailed off, wondering what their new little miracle would be. "Another daughter? Another son?"

"Perhaps both," Annie laughed at the joy she saw in her husband's eyes. "Maybe it will be twins!"

"Twins!" Erik's voice trailed off as he fell to his knees and placed a happy kiss on Annie's belly. "Whatever you turn out to be, little baby—or babies, as the case may be—he whispered to his unborn offspring—we will love you so much. We cannot wait for you to join our family—for with your mother around," he added, standing up again to look Annie in the eyes, "life is always such a beautiful dance."

"Because you and I make such beautiful music…" Annie responded, kissing her husband fully on the mouth. "Together."

 **AN: Whew! You made it! And so did they. Again, I really hope you enjoyed this last look into our characters' lives. I will be publishing this story on Amazon eventually-probably broken into 3 books. I'll post here when it's available!**


	127. ANNOUNCEMENT

Prelude has been published and is available now through Amazon and as a Kindle ebook.

I decided to break the story into 4 parts-Only the first part is available now. The story ends right as Erik and Annie decide to leave for Paris.

Can I ask you all a BIG favor? If you've read Prelude and enjoyed it, please go leave a review on Amazon. (remembering that the story ends just as they decide to leave for Paris. No spoilers. :) )

I cannot post a link here, because of fan fiction's regulations, but just go to Amazon and search up Prelude by J.M. Smith and that will get you to the print version. If you want the Kindle version, look up Prelude J Smith.

Thank you so much for your support! I truly appreciate it!


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